


Cutting Edge But Classic

by e_skah_pay



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon compliant up to MAG 176, Canon-Typical Pining, Canon-Typical Worms, Canon-typical Character Death (kind of), F/M, Hopeful ending (I guess), M/M, TMA Time Travel AU, The Magnus Archives Is A Tragedy, This is both a fix-it fic and also very much not a fix-it fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25585531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_skah_pay/pseuds/e_skah_pay
Summary: July 2016. Various perspectives from the Archival staff of the Magnus Institute on time travel, the coming apocalypse, and other such topics that they didn't know about until today. The Magnus Archives is a tragedy. Martin is not going to be okay.(kind of sucks to see your future self in such bad shape, though.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 80
Kudos: 281





	1. Martin Blackwood, regarding A Door

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to what I have been calling The Sad TMA Fic.  
> James ily

At this point, Martin really should’ve been used to people storming out of Jon’s office. It was quite something his ability to piss people off. Understandable on their part, though. He knew exactly what it was like to share a horrifying trauma with the one person who might believe you, only to be met with, well, Jonathan Sims. There was a small part of Martin that thought he might be the only person so far Jon had actually believed. Well, him and Sasha. And that one youtuber, Melanie King, though he’d heard her telling Jon off from halfway across the Archives. So maybe he’d just been his usual self.

Martin frowned. He’d liked feeling a bit special for a minute there, but of course all it took were a few rational thoughts to clamp that out. Like where there had once been a small glow in his chest, there was now just a painful heat, and-

No, that was Jon’s tea, which he’d managed to spill all over himself while simultaneously crashing into the man who came very suddenly out of the door marked _Head Archivist_.

“Oh, sorry!” Martin yelped, and the man hopped back a little, somehow both jumping away from Martin and reaching toward him to help at the same time. 

“No, it was me-”

“Don’t worry-”

“Oh your shirt-”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” Martin finally managed to brush the man off of him, and allowed himself a moment to watch as he scooped up what looked like… an apple? The man grimaced after him, glared for a second back at Jon, and hurried back up the stairs to the rest of the Institute. Martin watched him go. He was rather handsome in that neurotic-academia-I-haven’t-slept-in-three-weeks way, if you were into that sort of thing. Which Martin, unfortunately, was. 

“Are you _quite_ finished out there?”

Speaking of.

“Right! Yes, sorry Jon, I was just going to bring you some…” He glanced down at the half-empty mug in his hand. “Ah. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Don’t bother, I’ll just take what you have. I think I rather need it after that.”

“Rough statement?” Martin reached with his free hand to open Jon’s door. 

Except… Hang on. Since when did this door have a knob instead of a handle? And if it was closed, how come he could hear Jon so clearly? And why was it… yellow?

This was not Jon’s door. 

This was not an Archive door. 

Very slowly, Martin removed his hand from the doorknob and took a few steps back. Jon’s office was in front of him, and through the open door there was Jon, at the desk, looking at him like he wasn’t quite sure if Martin had lost his mind. And next to Jon’s door was a door that had not been there a few moments ago. 

Martin swallowed. “Jon, you might want to see this.”

The knob started to turn. 

“Jon, you _really_ should see this!” 

Jon scrambled out around his desk, all irritation replaced with that rarest of emotions, genuine concern. When he saw the door he blanched. 

“What was that statement?” he muttered, and then louder, to Martin. “The statement?”

“Wh- what statement?”

Jon growled a little. “The statement, I just read one a few weeks ago, there was a, a door-”

“What, this door?”

“Well, not _this_ door, obviously!”

“How is that obvious?!”

Jon just shook his head, giving up on Martin. “Sasha! What was the door statement?”

From around the corner, Sasha’s voice came faint. “I think Tim did that one!”

From around the other corner, Tim’s voice came slightly less faint. “Was that the haunted doorknob or the scary floating one that was definitely just a bad trip?”

“Haunted doorknob, definitely haunted doorknob!” Martin yelled. 

From either side of them, both Sasha and Tim’s heads poked round into the hallway. 

“Are _you_ having a bad trip?” Tim asked, and then he saw the door, and the grin fell from his face. 

Jon spared a moment to glare at him. “Unless we all partook in the same hallucinogens and are now in this together, I sincerely doubt that.” 

The door cracked open. 

Everyone stepped back. 

Something long and spindly poked out of the crack, like spider’s legs. Jon made a small choking sound and pressed himself flat against the wall. The arachnophobia coming out, Martin figured. Except… no, this wasn’t a spider. There were five limbs, not eight. A hand? A weird, long hand, with far too many bones and joints and-

Sasha made a small noise of alarm. “Is that… Michael?”

A small chuckle floated out of the door. Jarring, disjointed. The door opened further, and a whole head poked out. “Yes and no,” the head said. 

Martin had to blink a few times in order to actually look at the head. In his blurred peripheral vision, it looked like a stout Black woman with an advert-worthy smile. When he tried to look directly, though, she was definitely not. 

_Not what?_ He tried to think, and shook it off. She just… was not. And also she was. It was confusing. He stopped looking at her.

“What do you mean yes _and_ no?” Jon asked. At some point he’d raised an arm in front of Martin’s chest, like some sort of protection. Martin decided not to think about that. He _did_ think about it, but the important thing was that he’d decided not to.

The woman - It didn’t feel _quite_ right to think of her as a woman, but it felt the least wrong out of all the other things he could imagine - laughed again. It hurt his teeth the same way looking at her hurt his ears. 

“Well, I was Michael, but now I am Helen. But also, I am still Michael, and I am not yet Helen. Helen hasn’t even met me yet, much less let me become her. Does that make sense?”

“Not even a little bit,” Jon said. 

Helen ignored him and peered further out of the door. “Forgive me, but is that Sasha James that spoke just now?”

“Hey-” Tim started to step out, but Helen waved a hand at him. 

“No need to be like that, Tim. I’m just excited to make an unfamiliar face familiar again. Oh, he’ll be so pleased. Maybe this’ll make up for the rest of it. Poor thing.” She glared, for some reason, at Jon. “Do try not to be too hard on him.”

Jon just shook his head, sputtering out some vaguely confused syllables. “ _Who_?”

Helen smiled, which gave Martin a headache, and extended a single finger upward.

A second door had appeared in the plaster tiles of the ceiling. Or, maybe the first door had appeared again, in a different place. It fell open like a trap door, revealing what looked like a long hallway, extending far into the distance. Someone was walking along the hallway, slow and resolute, toward the Archives. They were far in the distance, then close, then far away again, and then they were falling out of the door. 

And Martin Blackwood landed on the floor of the Magnus Institute in a heap.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also features canon-typical timeline inconsistencies, because I forgot who did the follow-up for A Sturdy Lock and it turns out it actually WAS Martin and Sasha.


	2. Martin Blackwood and Martin Blackwood, regarding Himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Is Where The Worms Come In. It's not that graphic but like, consider yourself warned.

Martin was brewing tea. He, quite honestly, didn’t know what else to do. What  _ can _ you do when a man who looks exactly like you but also nothing like you falls out of the ceiling through a door that didn’t exist before and ceases to exist immediately after dumping out the man who looks exactly like you-

“Martin.” 

He jumped, nearly ripping the box of tea bags in two. 

Sasha touched his arm gently. “You alright?”

“Yeah, sorry, I just. I didn’t see you there.”

She gave a wry smile. “You think if you boil the water hard enough it’ll gain magic powers to make this all go away?”

Martin yelped, and turned the kettle off. He hadn’t even noticed it roiling away on the counter. “Sorry, I-”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Sasha put her hands up. “I just wanted to say, we’ve got him set up in Camp Archive.”

“Is he…”

“Dozing in and out. Not making any sense, keeps muttering about the hallways. Doesn’t seem injured, at least not that badly.” She made some kind of scrunched-up face. “He doesn’t seem to know where he is. I think he might be delirious or something?”

“Delirious. Right.” Martin looked at the tea bags still in his hands, and then back up at Sasha. “Can I just say. What the fuck?”

“My sentiments exactly!” Tim swept into the breakroom, Jon in tow. “Boy, what a day, eh? Nutty professors, haunted doors, and a whole two Martins! Two Martins! What are we going to do with  _ two  _ Martins, eh Jon?” He elbowed Jon, who just glared at him, curled in on himself with arms folded. 

“That’s not Martin,” Jon said, and for the splittest of seconds Martin was terrified that he meant  _ him _ , Martin, standing in the breakroom holding tea bags. 

“He looks a lot like Martin,” Sasha pointed out. 

“Yes, obviously he  _ looks _ like Martin, thank you Sasha,” Jon snapped. “But he can’t be. I mean, he can’t  _ be _ Martin, Martin’s right  _ here. _ ” He waved a hand vaguely in Martin’s direction, not looking at him.

“We’re all very observant today,” observed Tim. 

Martin put the tea bags down on the counter and yanked a mug out of the cupboard. “Does anybody want some tea?” 

“And anyway,” Tim continued, “There’s no use arguing over anything. Either we wait ‘til he wakes up and interrogate him, or we look through the Archives to see if this isn’t the first time someone’s evil twin has burst through a haunted door.”

“What makes you think he’s evil?” Sasha asked.

“The hair,” Tim said, as if that made any sense. 

Martin frowned and touched his head. “What about my hair?”

“It’s great!” Tim said, still as if that made any sense. “And  _ his _ is all… you know.” He waggled his fingers to demonstrate whatever it was that Martin was supposed to know. “There’s only two explanations for that. One: Evil twin. Two: He’s from an alternate nightmare dimension where everything is the same except Martin is straight.”

Martin nearly dropped the mugs. “ _ Excuse _ me?”

“Come on,” Tim grinned. “That hair just  _ screams _ five-in-one shampoo, conditioner, body wash, shaving cream, deodorant, and facial cleanser.”

“How dare you.”

“Tim has a point somewhere in there,” Jon broke in. “If this…  _ other _ Martin is something dangerous, we should try to be on top of it before it wakes up.”

“I seem to remember something about doppelgangers I read last week,” Sasha suggested. 

Jon nodded. “Good. I suppose we can start there.”

Then the three of them were gone, leaving Martin with a cooling kettle and a collection of empty mugs.

He made a decision, and ten minutes later, tea in hand, followed through. 

He hesitated at the door to Camp Archives, though. It was ridiculous to think this Other Martin would appreciate a visit, or even be awake. But he didn’t think he’d be able to focus on research with another him just  _ lying there _ in the other room. And anyway, it was nice to wake up and see that someone had thought of you enough to leave you a cup of tea. Even if it was cold by the time you got to it. 

So, he plastered on as genuine a smile as he could manage and shouldered his way in. “Hey, sorry, are you awake in… here?”

He frowned at the cot where he’d been sleeping for the past month or so. The blankets were tousled, but it was empty now. 

Martin leaned back out the door. “Jon! Sasha, Tim! The other Martin’s gone!”

“What do you  _ mean _ he’s gone?” Jon’s voice.

“I mean he’s not here!”

The three of them piled in as a group, peering around Martin into the room.

“The hell?” Tim asked.

Jon rubbed his temple. “This is exactly what I was talking about. I  _ knew _ we should have left someone here to watch him.”

“There’s nowhere for him to  _ go _ ,” Tim argued, with the kind of tone that said they’d argued about this before.

Sasha just stared at the cot, at the door, at the shelves. “Hang on, do you see that? There’s… smoke?”

She pointed down, and sure enough there was a thin trail of white smoke curling around the corner of the nearest shelf. 

Jon looked horrified. “Dear Lord, is he trying to burn down the Archives?”

Tim kicked at it. “Doesn’t smell like smoke. Some kind of gas? Like from the CO2 canisters, maybe?” He rounded the corner and put his hands up in victory. “And there you have it!”

In the space between the shelf and the wall, the floor had opened up and was billowing steam like a pot of dry ice. 

“So much for nowhere to go,” Jon muttered. Tim stuck his tongue out at him. 

“You think he went down there?” Sasha grimaced. 

Martin gave a nervous chuckle. “What, like, to kill Jane Prentiss or something?”

Everybody looked at him. 

“Fuck,” Martin muttered. “Why would he do that?”

Tim shrugged. “More important question, why would  _ you _ do that?”

“I wouldn’t!”

“We still don’t know that it’s actually Martin,” Jon pointed out, but nobody bothered to acknowledge it. 

“You reckon we should go down after him?” Sasha asked.

“That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” Jon said, and pushed his glasses up. “Tim, pass me that torch.”

“Right-o, Boss.”

———————- 

The tunnels were dark, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to see his way to her. He could feel it, like a tug in his chest. The occasional worm squelched underfoot, and Martin winced every time, even though he knew they wouldn’t hurt him. They couldn’t, now. Cool mist swirled around his ankles with every step, and the worms went still where they touched it. 

The hall opened up into a wider space. He remembered this sort of thing, how the tunnels would seem to spawn rooms out of nowhere. He remembered the last time he’d been in this scenario - wandering the Institute tunnels, surrounded by worms. At the time, it was the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to him. Now, his heartbeat wasn’t even accelerated. It was like it was all happening to someone else. Like his body was just carrying him along.

“Jane?” he said, and she looked up. It was almost a perfect reenactment of their first meeting: her, huddled in the corner. Him, struggling to see in the dark. 

She took a step toward him, but stopped just short of the mist. Shifted her feet. Tilted her head. 

“I heard your statement,” Martin said. He didn’t really know what he was doing, what he was saying, but he felt like he  _ had  _ to. The only thing he could really  _ feel _ was something like an itch, buried between his lungs, and this was, apparently, the way to scratch it.

And then he winced, internally. Itching was maybe not the metaphor to use facing down Jane Prentiss, but he couldn’t be bothered to come up with something better. He just let his words come out, as natural as crying. He hadn’t cried yet, he realized, and didn’t know why. Maybe once the itch was scratched, it would clear up some room for sorrow. 

“I get it, you know. Wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, but it almost made it worse, how well I understood you. I was ready to do just about anything for a bit of affection. Becoming a living hive is sort of stretching it, but hey.” He shrugged. “People have done worse.”

Jane opened her mouth, and three worms slithered out.

“Can’t really judge you for wanting to be loved,” Martin continued. “But I always wondered… Does it hurt, when they bite into you?”

Jane rubbed her forearms, like she was cold. In that thin dress, Martin bet she probably was. 

“And is it really worth it, if it does hurt that much? What’ll happen when you’re out of muscle for them to chew on? Dying for love isn’t such a bad way to go, but what if it’s the love itself that kills you? Do they really love you back, beyond the love you might feel for a nice home-cooked supper?”

Jane stopped moving. The worms did not. A few of them dropped from Jane’s shoulders, landing already dead in the wriggling hordes on the floor. 

“You know what I’m offering, Jane,” Martin said, reaching out a hand. Palm up, fingers gently curled. Easily within her reach. “I promise, it doesn’t hurt any more than this does. Less, in my experience. But it does have to be something you choose.”

More worms fell, still and silent, into the mist. It was edging up around Jane’s bare feet now, in and around and through her legs. Martin waited. He could feel the inner turmoil there - the Lonely usually played a much longer game than this. It didn’t like to be rushed. Jane had been edging up on it for years, though, he could feel that. If she hadn’t found the hive, she probably would’ve found this eventually. Sometimes there are multiple solutions to the same problem. Multiple ways for the same root issue to manifest. 

Jane’s arm shifted, just slightly. She twitched like a puppet on a string, her empty eye sockets boring into Martin’s. Her hand raised up, reached out.

There was a sound over Martin’s left shoulder, further down the tunnel. The worms in Jane stretched toward it, but she stayed locked onto Martin.

Silently, reassuringly, Martin nodded. Jane’s hand fell into his, much warmer and softer than he was expecting. It felt, for a moment, almost like a human hand. 

_ You are different now _ , her voice curled behind his ears.  _ You’ve seen what comes next. _

“Yes,” he said. 

_ I like you quite a bit, Martin Blackwood. I’m glad you learned how to have fun. _

Her fingers passed through his palm, dissolving into mist and crumbling to the floor. 

And Jane Prentiss was gone. 

The full weight of everything crashed down on Martin suddenly. There were sounds in the tunnels after all - dripping, clanging, the faintest echoes of something that rang with life. His legs felt heavy underneath him, but he knew he had to keep moving. Sending Jane to the Lonely had cut the worms off from their host, but it didn’t necessarily mean he was safe down here.

He stumbled to find a wall to lean up against. All he’d done was talk to her, it shouldn’t have taken that much out of him. Then again, it had been a long day. Literally. He hadn’t slept since long before-

A bright light flashed on, and he put a hand up to block his eyes. It was coming from that one tunnel, where the sound had been. Was someone there? He blinked, and the light lowered a bit. Now that it wasn’t in his eyes, he could see it was a torch, weilded by a small, horrified-looking man huddling in the tunnel. Long hair, wide eyes, dark skin - 

“Jon?” Martin whispered. Thank God he’d found that wall, because his knees went weak and he almost fell to the floor. It was Jon. Jon was here, it was all some kind of nightmare, they could go home, it was going to be okay-

Except Jon’s hands were shaking. His hair was too styled, his skin smooth and unscarred. He seemed uncertain, hesitant in a way he never could with all the Archivist’s knowledge clanging round in his brain. 

He looked… human.

Jon swallowed, and glanced over his shoulder. Now that Martin’s eyes were adjusting to the dark, he could see that Jon wasn’t alone. There was Tim, and an unfamiliar woman with glasses and a thick fringe, and. 

Ah. 

Huddled between Tim and the woman, there was Martin Blackwood. Even in the dim light, he barely recognized himself. Here was the man whose worst paranormal experience was Jane Prentiss. Whose thoughts were pretty much just full of pining over his boss in a desperate attempt to drown out the silence of his flat now that Mum was gone away. God, what he wouldn’t give to have those problems again.

“What the hell is going on?” Jon asked, still holding out the torch like it was going to be any use as a weapon. Stupid, headstrong asshole. 

“That’s a very good question,” Martin said, clamping down  _ hard _ on the part of him that was begging to run to Jon and sweep him up and carry him out of here, never to return. First things, first. He had to get out of these tunnels. But the rest of the Institute might be just as dangerous. “Is Elias here?” he asked.

“He’s in Wales,” the woman with fringe said, with the abruptness and surprise of being asked a mundane question in a very not-mundane situation. “Vacation.”

“Vacation,” Martin echoed. He almost laughed. He was glad he didn’t, he wasn’t sure how it would come out. “God bless Helen Richardson. We have some time, then.” He took a breath. “Would you mind if we had this conversation up in the Archives? Could use some tea.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The problem-solving strategies of s1 Martin and s5 Martin....... differ
> 
> Also, forgot to mention this in chapter 1 but the title is an obligatory Lemon Demon lyric, it's from Redesign Your Logo


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exposition, but oh god, at what cost?

“Statement of-” 

“No.”

Jon paused. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not giving you my statement. Turn off the tape.” Martin gripped the edge of the table, hard. They’d set themselves up in Jon’s office, and he’d brought out the recorder in what looked like a thoughtless habit. Had the Eye really started claiming him already? It seemed like it was far too early for that. 

But regardless, Martin wasn’t about to let Jon pull the last two years of trauma out of him. Especially not  _ this _ Jon. There were some things you really didn’t need to know about your own future. 

Jon nodded, and moved put the tape recorder back in the drawer where he kept it.

“Keep it out though,” Martin said. 

“You just said you weren’t giving a statement.”

“I said I’m not giving you  _ my _ statement, Jon. I’m giving you  _ your _ statement.” He plucked his pack from where it was resting by his chair and up-ended it over the desk. Dozens of black tapes clattered down in a heap. Several of them fell to the floor, and the woman with the fringe- Sasha, Martin reminded himself, that must be Sasha - knelt down to collect them. 

“It’s your handwriting,” she said, glancing at the title scrawled onto the side. 

Jon was just gazing, horrified, at the pile on his desk. “Easy to fake,” he muttered. 

“Listen to them, then,” Martin said. “Everything you need to know is going to be in here somewhere, and I dare you to tell me I’m lying when it’s your own damn voice reading it out to you.”

“Where-” Jon took a breath. “Where do we even  _ start _ ?”

Martin shrugged. “Pick a tape. Any tape.”

Looking like it was the last thing in the world he wanted to be doing, Jon pursed his lips and gingerly took a tape off the top of the pile. He glanced at the title down the bridge of his nose. “The cabin?” 

Martin lunged across the desk to swipe it out of his hand. “NOT that one.” 

“You said any tape!” 

“Yeah, well, I guess not  _ any  _ tape.” Martin sighed and slumped into the chair. Of all the ones to pick, of course it would be the one that had Jon professing his love for Martin multiple times. “Okay, fine. I’ll… have to edit them down, I suppose.” He felt a rush of relief, and made a face at himself.  _ Stop that. _

“Give us the short version, then?” Tim piped up.

“I’m from the future and I’m trying to stop the Apocalypse.”

Jon scoffed, and Martin prickled up. 

“What’s your reasonable explanation, then, that I’m Martin’s long lost twin and I’m playing the world’s worst practical joke?”

Everyone looked a little taken aback, especially his past self. Right, at this point in time the chances of Martin Blackwood standing up for himself was pretty much zero.

Martin - the one hovering awkwardly in the corner - cleared his throat. “Jon, sorry, I just- I don’t think he’s lying.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “And you’d know?”

“Yes.” He squared his shoulders a bit. “Yes, I think I would.” 

Alright, so maybe the odds were a tiny bit higher than zero.

“But” Past Martin turned to Future Martin. “Just to make sure, tell me something only I know.”

Martin thought for a second. Something only he knew? He’d spent so long under the Eye’s gaze, it was difficult to imagine that he had any kind of privacy. 

Tim smirked a little. “What, you can’t think of anything? No big, scary secrets for Martin Blackwood?”

“Oh, plenty,” Martin said, “I’m just trying to decide which is the least mortifying to share with my coworkers.”

“I think we’re a little past  _ embarrassment _ at this point,” Jon muttered. 

“I am,” Martin agreed, then pointed at his younger self. “He is not.” Might as well be kind to himself, while he was here. Lord knew he needed it. “Alright. When I was about eleven I was obsessed with the Spice Girls. I came out to Baby Spice via a fan letter, and signed it  _ Christopher _ .”

“Is that true?” Sasha asked. 

Past Martin nodded, face red. “There was  _ nothing _ less embarrassing than that?” 

“No, no, it’s perfect.” Tim clapped one hand over his heart and grabbed Past Martin’s arm with the other. “I think I just fell in love with you.”

“If you’re  _ quite _ done,” Jon deadpanned, but Martin knew him well enough by now to recognize an attempt to reign in a smile. His eyes got just a little  _ too _ tight at the corner, there. 

And Martin felt, quite helplessly, that there was literally nothing he wanted more in the world than for Jon to laugh at him. Not for being a closeted, pre-teen trans kid who spilled his heart out in a letter to one of the most famous women in the world, but for… well, he didn’t know. Whatever Jon found funny about him. 

Tim snorted, and gave Past Martin’s arm a squeeze. “The more things change, eh, mate?”

Martin cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.  _ Don’t look at Jon like that, stupid, he doesn’t know what to do with it yet. _ “Slightly longer version,” he said. “The… basics. There are fourteen entities that rule over all fear in the world. The Institute works for one of them. Or, Elias does, and then the rest of us do by association. Anyway. Elias is planning to use you, Jon, as a tool to enact a ritual bring about the end of this world. And in the future that I come from, he succeeds. So I’m here to make sure that  _ doesn’t _ happen. I guess.”

“You guess.” Jon frowned. 

“Elias is trying to end the world?” Sasha said. 

“Well, actually, he’s not Elias. Technically. He’s, ah, he’s Jonah Magnus? He killed the original Elias and possessed him, in the same way that he’s been body-hopping for the past two hundred years. He can see everything that you think and do, which is why it always feels like you’re being watched down here. He murdered Gertrude, her body’s in the tunnels under the Archives. And he’s keeping you trapped here. Supernaturally.”

“He  _ murdered  _ Gertrude?” Past Martin squeaked.

Jon, ignoring him, said “Supernaturally trapped in the Archives?” 

Martin could hear the doubt in his voice. He was probably scrambling for some kind of reasonable explanation, the stubborn ass. It was early on, he had to keep reminding himself. Jon desperately wanted to think that he’d already seen the worst of it. That there was nothing out there that could measure up to his traumatic childhood encounter.

He tried to remember when Jon had told him that. Part of the apology for being such a bastard in the early days, he thought. It was a bit uncharacteristically self-aware, though. He couldn’t picture how Jon had sounded when he said it.

And then his mind skipped a beat, so he pulled it back to the matter at hand. This was important, he reminded himself. No going off track. He fixed himself on Jon’s face.

“How many times have you pulled up an empty termination notice, fully intending to fill it out, slap it down on the desk, and inform me or Tim or both of us that we would no longer be employed at the Magnus Institute? Only to find yourself several hours later, still staring at a blank form, physically nauseous at the idea of taking a pen to it?”

Jon flushed. “It hasn’t been  _ that _ many times.”

“But it’s happened. More than once.”

“...Yes.”

Past Martin raised a hand. “Sorry, can we go back to the part where Elias  _ murdered Gertrude _ ? And just, got away with it?”

Martin sighed. “The police is wrapped up in everything, too.”

“The  _ police _ ,” Sasha echoed. “Why would the police be wrapped up in the supernatural?”

Tim shrugged. “I mean, it is the police.”

“Alright, that’s it.” Jon stood up. “I will admit, there was a point to which I was willing to believe you. And I’m sure there is some nonsense going on that’s brought another version of Martin here, God help us. But I refuse to stand by some ridiculous conspiracy theory about Jonah Magnus and the police, and, and  _ fear gods _ , of all things.”

Martin gritted his teeth. He knew this would be difficult, but God, he forgot how  _ obtuse _ Jon could be. “You can cut it out with the skeptic act, I know full well you believe in the supernatural.”

“Of course I-” Jon made a face. “Of course I  _ believe _ in it, it’s just, well. Why would it be  _ you _ ?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Martin saw his past self draw back. Hands in his lap, picking at the chipped blotches of nail polish on his fingers. And that was it. This was- God, this was the  _ worst _ of Jon, when he was like this, and now that he knew he didn’t deserve it, it was just- 

“You know, Jon, I don’t know. But if it makes any difference, it’s not like I beat you to the position. I didn’t beat  _ any _ of you to it, you all would have been better, probably, but out of the four of us, I’m the only one left.” He didn’t get up, didn’t make a move to be imposing. That’s not how you make a point to Jonathan Sims. He just sat, arms crossed, glaring the man down. “I’m trying to save your life, so if you wouldn’t mind  _ not _ being a dick for about five minutes, I’d  _ really _ appreciate it.”

Jon raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything. Nobody said anything. 

“I’m sorry,” Past Martin said. 

Martin laughed at that. Actually, really laughed, if only to stop himself from crying. “What are  _ you _ sorry for? You do everything exactly right. You  _ survive  _ the Apocalypse. Survive everything, and you’re not even the bloody Archivist.” He rubbed his temple. He couldn't lose it, not now. He just had to hang on a little longer, make sure they were all safe, and then this could all just be over with. 

Sasha leaned forward. “What do you mean “The Archivist”?”

Tim gestured at Jon, across the desk, but Sasha shook her head. “No, Jon’s the  _ Head _ Archivist. Not  _ The  _ Archivist. It’s a completely different job title.”

“Does it really matter-” Jon started to say, but Martin cut him off. 

“ _ The  _ Archivist isn’t a job,” he said. “It’s more of a… description of a being. Like a Flesh Hive, or The Distortion, or…” He tried to remember what they’d dealt with at this point. “Mister Spider?”

Jon looked like he was going to be ill. “You, ah… hm.” He raked a hand through his hair and left it sticking up in all directions. “You… you know about that, then.”

“I know bloody everything,” Martin said, and felt the words hang heavy in the air as they left his chest. It was a lie, he didn’t know  _ everything _ , but he thought he maybe knew enough that it didn’t make much of a difference. “I don’t want to talk about it. Listen to the tapes if you want. Let me know if anything bad happens.”

He got up to leave, still clutching the  _ Cabin _ tape to his chest. On an impulse, he scooped up his bag and dropped a few of the other tapes in there to take with him. Anything too personal to share, or too damning. The Lonely. The End. The Dark. The Eye. That one caught him up a bit. He didn’t remember Jon recording a Beholding statement. As far as he could tell, Jon had  _ been  _ the Beholding statement. Which meant that this tape… 

He shoved it to the bottom of the bag. There was no need to revisit that. Choices had been made. What’s done is done. He just had to make sure it didn’t happen again.

  
  



	4. Martin Blackwood and Sasha James, regarding Safe Proceedings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for brief, metaphorical references to depression and suicide, to skip over it stop reading at "Because... he hadn't talked to the others" and continue at the scene break.

Martin took a breath, hesitated at the door. _Deja vu_ , he thought. Here he was again, popping in on the Other Martin while the rest of the Archive staff buried themselves in statements. He hadn’t tried to listen to any, but judging by the absolute face journey Jon was going on in his office, he didn’t want to. 

Besides, it was almost home time, and he was slowly realizing he didn’t know whether or not he was actually meant to be heading _home_ . Jane was “dealt with”, whatever that meant, but the idea of actually sleeping in his flat, alone, without whatever weird protections were up around this place… He didn’t like it. He didn’t really like staying _here_ either, but this was where he’d been safe. Camp Archives, as Sasha’d named it, was his own little private sanctuary. 

Except now he had to share it. Maybe? He wasn’t really sure what Other Martin was planning on doing. Or if he had a plan at all. And if he didn’t have a plan, maybe they should make one?

Either way, it was up to him to deal with himself. Same old, same old, he supposed.

He knocked on the door this time, giving Other Martin plenty of time to tell him to go away. “Hi, it’s uh, it’s me, it’s…” God, what was he supposed to say? “...It’s Martin. I brought you some tea?”

He waited, and after a moment there was a faint “Come in.”

Martin didn’t bother faking a smile this time round - he’d recognize a lie on his own face - and quietly stepped inside. 

Other Martin was sat on the cot, blanket pulled round his shoulders, very obviously recovering from what had been a good cry. 

“Ah,” Martin said, and wordlessly shoved the mug out in front of him with both hands. 

Other Martin looked at it, back up at Martin, and blinked hard to clear his eyes. “Thank you.” He held it for a moment, just staring at it. 

Martin shifted his weight, suddenly feeling very awkward. It’s not like he’d never had to pull himself out of a breakdown before, it was just that, well, usually he was pulling his own actual _self_ out of it. Not some Future Him.

“Careful, it… it might be a bit hot.”

Other Martin just nodded, still looking at the tea. 

“Do you, uh, do you want to talk about it?”

“Trust me, it’s nothing you want to hear.”

“Well, obviously. But you’ve come this far.” Martin sat down on the end of the cot. “I can’t really bring myself to believe that I’m, what, the lone survivor of the Apocalypse? Martin Blackwood, coming out from behind. Who would’ve thought?”

“You’re not the _lone_ survivor,” Other Martin said. “Don’t go thinking you’re special when you’re not.”

“Right.” Martin didn’t feel insulted. If anything, it was reassuring. He didn’t need to be special - didn’t _want_ to be special, if he was being perfectly honest. He certainly didn’t _feel_ special, did he? It was a lot easier to be average and pleasant, and blend into the background. It was comfortable there. He’d always thought people would be a lot happier if they stopped trying so hard to be _special_ . Being _good enough_ was, well, good enough. Always had been for him.

“Just bad luck, then?” Martin asked. 

“Better luck than the rest of them. But yeah. You’re only here because Elias knew you lied on your CV and he thought it’d be funny to watch you struggle through it. Archival Assistants tend to be… expendable. Especially with Gertrude.”

Martin frowned. “Gertrude didn’t have any assistants.”

“None that survived.”

“Ah.” Martin twisted his hands in his lap. He was getting the very sudden and strong feeling that Other Martin didn’t like him very much. And even more surprising, it was sort of mutual. 

To be clear, Martin Blackwood not liking himself wasn’t new. But he’d always thought if he could be more useful, or more confident, or more… something… it would all change. Instead, all he got with a new-and-improved Martin was a bunch of new-and-improved qualities to dislike. 

His goal, he decided, was to not become this man. 

Well, actually, no. The first goal was to get everyone out of here safe and happy, and avoid the end of the world. The _second_ goal was to not become this man. 

Because… he hadn’t talked to the others about it, but whatever that smoke was that kept following Other Martin everywhere? It felt… bad. Whenever he touched it, it brought up all these horrible feelings which, again, weren’t new, but they usually weren’t that strong, either. He didn’t want to feel that way, and he _definitely_ didn’t want to make the people around him feel that way. 

(He had the sneaking suspicion that Other Martin had made Jane Prentiss feel that way, and she’d felt it so strongly she’d made the decision not to feel anything, at all, ever again.)

He glanced over at Other Martin, still watching the steam rise from his mug, curling and shifting off-white through the air. An awful lot like that smoke.

He looked away. 

* * *

Sasha ducked into Tim’s office, and luckily enough caught Jon as well, trying to convince Tim to hand over the stack of unplayed tapes on his desk.

“Sasha. Good. Please tell Tim that we need to collect all the information we can if we’re going to stop Elias, and _someone_ has to listen to those tapes.”

“Sasha, please tell Jon that Future Martin already _has_ all the information we need because he _lived_ it, and there’s no reason for us to-”

“I’m ordering you to give them to me, Tim, I’m still your boss.”

“What are you gonna do, fire me? Give it a try.”

Sasha put up a hand. “Tim’s right.”

“ _Thank_ you.”

“And besides,” she continued, ignoring Jon’s protests, “I’ve listened to a few of them myself. I don’t think it’s good for you, to hear yourself suffer like that.”

Jon scoffed. 

“Alright then,” Sasha said, “How about we have Martin listen to them?”

“ _Absolutely not_.”

Tim grinned. “So there you have it. Leave them alone, Boss, for your own sake. If it’s good enough for Martin, it’s good enough for you.”

Jon muttered something under his breath that Sasha couldn’t make out, but he didn’t argue any more. 

“Speaking of Martin and Martin Squared,” Tim said, “What news from Camp Archives?”

“They think it’d be best if we all stayed here for the night. Murderous Institute Heads and all that.”

Jon nodded. "It's a good idea. The Institute has a security system, so at least we'll know when-" he pursed his lips like there was a bad taste in his mouth, " _Elias_ comes back."

“Look at you, agreeing with Martin!” Tim’s eyes lit up. “You know, Camp Archives is pretty small. Think we’ll have to bed-share?”

“Good Lord, Tim.”

“Hey, we’re all quitting as soon as we can, right? If there’s any time for an HR violation, now is it!”

Jon glared at him. “If we’re all quitting as soon as we can, I’m sure you’ll be able to wait until then to attempt to seduce your coworkers.”

Tim grinned. “Oh, I’ve been doing that this whole time, Martin just hasn't noticed yet.”

Sasha did her best to stifle a snort, and failed. “He’s been a bit preoccupied.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s difficult to develop an office romance while you’re being terrorized by supernatural worms,” Jon deadpanned, confidently missing the point. 

Tim put both hands over his mouth and widened his eyes at Sasha, who couldn’t help but make a face back. She didn’t tease Martin about his crush on Jon nearly as much as Tim did - at least not to his face - but it _was_ her fault Tim knew about it. She probably should have let it be, left Tim guessing and Martin suffering in his lonely peace. 

But that wouldn’t really have been any fun. So.

Jon looked back and forth between them. “Hang on, does Martin… Is he…” He made an _extremely_ complicated facial expression. “Is he _seeing_ someone?”

“Very rude of you to sound so skeptical about it,” Sasha said. 

“He _is_?”

“I think if you’re so interested in Martin’s love life, you should ask him yourself.” Tim swept his tapes into a desk drawer and scooted the both of them out of his office. “But for the record, no. He is _very_ single.”

“Despite your best efforts, I’m sure,” Jon snarked, but he went a bit red. “Well. It’s not like I- It’s not like it was any of my business, anyway.”

“Absolutely,” Sasha said, and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I call the sofa in the breakroom.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: in order to channel my inner "be mean to Martin" and keep the stakes high I set a ground rule that he's not allowed to drink tea this entire fic. I know, I know, I'm a monster.
> 
> ANOTHER fun fact: today is November 7, 2020 and i am editing this author's note to say that I wrote this WELL before episode 186: Quiet came out. I'm so glad I've been vindicated and we got some canon uncomfortable Martin-Martin interactions.


	5. Jonathan Sims and Timothy Stoker, regarding Things That We Choose Not To Talk About

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks James for providing me with Tim Stoker Fact Checks <3

Jon ate dinner in his office, as he had many times before. He picked away at some work, though he had to admit he wasn’t entirely able to focus on it. Attempting to record a statement was out of the question. Even if he found a nice easy one, obviously fake, might lighten the mood, he didn’t know if the words would sit still long enough for him to read them.

To think, earlier today his biggest concern had been evil uni students and an apple with teeth. Maybe he should try plugging that one into the system - he hadn’t got a chance to give it a case number and log it with the rest of them before… 

Well. Before. 

He sighed, and shut the lid of the pad thai he’d ordered. His appetite was come-and-go at the best of times since getting becoming head archivist, and it was completely missing now. He’d figured it was the stress of being thrown into a position he had no idea how to do, with subordinates that were, in order:

  1. Obviously more qualified than him,
  2. Far too willing to use Institute funds and office hours for his own personal gain, and 
  3. Martin Blackwood.



And now there were  _ two _ Martins to contend with. As if one wasn’t bad enough. And, what was somewhat worse, the new Martin claimed that any statement that would only go on tape was... real. That made for a very long list of new horrors in the world for him to contend with. 

Assuming you could believe this new Martin, of course. 

He stuffed his leftovers into the breakroom fridge, and as he closed the door he caught sight of someone sat at the small table, picking at his meal. 

“Martin, are you-”

Martin looked up suddenly, and Jon thought he saw wisps of white mist whisk themselves away out of the corners of his vision. 

“Ah,” Jon said. The hair really should have given it away. Not that he paid attention to Martin’s hair, normally. He put his hands in his pockets, then behind his back, and finally just crossed them over his chest. Martin sat there, very still, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Are you…” Jon started to say. How was he going to finish that?  _ Are you alright _ made the most sense, considering the circumstances, but even he had enough emotional intelligence to know that the answer was an obvious  _ no _ . “Are you  _ really  _ Martin?”

Martin’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t look offended. “We went over that.”

“Yes, yes, congratulations, you know something embarrassing about Martin Blackwood. Could have found that out any number of ways.”

“I literally have never told a single person that I named myself Christopher at thirteen.”

“Well, except for Baby Spice,” Jon muttered.

Martin shoved his food away and turned in the chair to fully face him. “Jon, I know you’re trying really hard to push the whole “skeptical researcher” thing, but we both know it’s bullshit, so could you just cut it out?”

“This isn’t about skepticism, Martin. I’m not an idiot, I’ll believe my own two eyes when I see a man fall through a door that doesn’t exist.”

“What’s it about, then?”

“It’s… you.”

“Me.”

“No, the other you. The- Martin.” Jon gestured vaguely toward the exit, hoping that the real Martin was somewhere in that general direction. “You’re… different.”

“People change.”

“Yes, but this drastically? It almost seems more reasonable to assume that you’re a shapeshifter, come to try and kill us all once you lull us into a false sense of security. And you can’t claim knowing our secrets proves anything, because it’s been made abundantly clear to me that mind reading powers aren’t exactly a rarity.”

Martin seemed to shrink into the chair a little. “You listened to the tapes, then.”

“Yes.”

“And what did you think?”

“I  _ think _ I can’t even recognize myself in them, much less you.”

“Yeah, that’s… that’s fair.”

Jon felt his shoulders shaking, and pulled his arms in tighter. “I mean, good Lord, man, you’re telling me to, to  _ murder _ people. Martin, he’s, he’s not…” Jon sputtered a little. He knew, by this point, how conversations with Martin Blackwood were supposed to go, and this was not it. Not by a long shot. “Well, he’s  _ bumbling _ , to be honest. Sweet, you know, obviously making an effort. Perhaps too  _ much _ of an effort, but I suppose he has to, seeing as he’s obviously underqualified for his position.”

“So are you,” Martin pointed out. 

Jon felt himself flush. Was it that obvious? If even  _ Martin _ knew he was underqualified, he had less of a grip on things than he thought. Or maybe that was just something that came to light in the future. “You know what I mean. He’s like  _ that _ , that’s who Martin is, and then you show up, and you’re also Martin, but you’re…”

“Not grossly incompetent?”

Jon flinched a little. His own recorded words thrown back at him. “I was going to say  _ cold _ . What with all the… murder.”

Martin didn’t say anything else, just looked at him. Not making eye contact, at least he still had the care to mind that, but he was really  _ looking _ , wasn’t he? Jon was used to some level of scrutiny - Elias kept a close eye on him, and Lord, that had new connotations now, didn’t it - but this was something else entirely. He didn’t… dislike it. And he hated that he didn’t dislike it. And he really wanted to go be somewhere that wasn’t this room, here, with the Martin who wasn’t really Martin.

“”Well,” he said. “I should probably go, and, ah,”

He left the room without bothering to say what he was going to do. He honestly wasn’t sure what  _ to _ do. He’d seen that white gas swirling around the edges of his vision quite a bit, maybe some of their extra gas canisters were leaking. Might as well get rid of them, he supposed, now that Prentiss had been dealt with.

“Jon.”

He turned round. Martin had followed him out, and was now hovering in the doorway, looking a little uncertain as to whether he should come closer or just keep his distance and be as unobtrusive as possible. And  _ that _ was far too familiar a sight for Jon to handle. It was bad enough seeing a stranger with Martin’s face. This small glimpse of  _ his  _ Martin, the one he knew, made it all so, so much worse. 

“You, uh,” Martin cleared his throat and stared resolutely at Jon’s knees. “You think I’m sweet?”

Jon’s entire face went hot. “I. Did say that, yes.” He paused. “Don’t tell Tim.”

* * *

Tim was struggling. He had been for a while, but it had been more fun when he could deflect everything into jokes. Sure, ribbing Jon was a little mean-spirited, but at least it was a  _ normal _ sort of mean-spirited. For a bit, it had almost seemed to calm Jon down. Bring things back to normal, back to friendliness. Well, as close as Jon got to friendliness these days. He appreciated that Jon had wanted him to come with to the Archives, he really did, but it was like he was a completely different person down here. He’d have called it a power trip, but knowing Jon it was probably something closer to a year-long panic attack.

He’d tried to listen to the tapes Future Martin left. Swear on his life, he’d made an attempt. Popped in his headphones and hit play on the one marked  _ Stranger _ , but he couldn’t make it past the first few stanzas. Something about the rhythm of the words made his insides roil, like his blood was flowing in the wrong direction. 

Felt exactly like when Danny died. 

Hadn’t been able to stomach trying another one.

So it was jokes, then, to ignore the dark mood settling over the Archive. And then it was some exaggerated flirting over the bed-sharing situation (they ended up just giving it to Future Martin, and he accepted without protest, which really showed how much he needed it). By the time they all ended up on their respective couches and carpets, even Sasha wasn’t able to keep up a conversation. 

Bit of a relief, honestly. 

Except now he was lying awake on the floor of his creepy workplace with one of Martin’s coats tucked under his head and Sasha’s scarf pulled over him as an approximation of a blanket. 

It was simultaneously far too quiet and far too loud down here at night, with everyone asleep. There was the heating kicking in, and a distant whirring, and some sort of electric buzz in the ceiling that was going to give him a permanent tic at this rate. 

Hang on, a whirring?

Tim sat up, nearly hitting his head on his desk. There was a light on in the hall. No, not the hall, spilling  _ into _ the hall from Jon’s office. Through the frosted glass he thought he could make out the silhouette of someone sitting at the desk, head bent down. 

Shit, was he really up in the middle of the night listening to statements? 

Quiet as he could, Tim ducked back into his office and reached into the drawer where he’d dumped all Future Martin’s tapes. Empty. Double shit. Why did he bother spending all this time worrying over a man who clearly worried so little for his own damn self? Wasn’t even worth it, what with Martin and- 

Martin. 

Tim glanced further down the hall, toward Camp Archives. Stopping Jon now was a confrontation he really didn’t have the energy for, but maybe he could take some preventative measures. Martin had more tapes, ones even  _ he _ wanted to keep a secret. Hopefully Jon had been shortsighted as usual and hadn’t gone looking for them yet.

Creeping along the wall to avoid being seen by Jon (as if Jon had ever noticed anything outside of a statement when he was in the middle of one), Tim snuck to Camp Archives and toed the door open. Future Martin was asleep on the cot, and Present Martin was curled up along one wall. Tim wasn’t sure why they’d wanted to share a room, but he hadn’t pressed it. Didn’t seem like the sort of thing he’d understand, anyway.

Future Martin’s bag was at the foot of the cot, near the door, so Tim ducked down and rooted through it. He’d expected, dunno, camping gear or something, but it was almost completely empty. Just a big rucksack with a half dozen tapes buried at the bottom. He scooped them up and stood. 

And made immediate, direct eye contact with Future Martin, sat up in bed.

Shit.

Martin glanced down at the tapes, then back up at Tim’s face, obviously trying to convey some sort of question along the lines of  _ what the fuck are you doing? _

“Jon,” Tim whispered, and nodded in the direction of the Head Archivist office. “He’s listening to the tapes. Figured these ones needed a better hiding spot.”

Martin’s eyes widened, and it almost looked like he was going to get out of bed.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got something,” Tim said. “Just go back to sleep, I think you’ve earned it.”

Martin set his jaw. “Don’t listen to them.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I. I promise, mate, I don’t  _ want _ to know.”

Future Martin looked at him a second longer, then nodded.

“Except.” Tim said, and ignored the return of the glare, “I have been wondering. What gets me? In the end?”

“You want me to tell you how you die?”

“Well, how I  _ would _ die, if you hadn’t come and disrupted the timeline. But still, even if we are quitting, I-” He stopped.  _ I know that there’s other things out there _ , he wanted to say.  _ Worse things. I know that there’s no way to be safe, even if you do everything right, even if you’re the last person in the world who deserves to die.  _ “I want to know what to be on the lookout for,” he said instead. “Just in case.”

Martin laid down flat on his back, which Tim took to be a no. He didn’t get up to stop Tim from taking the tapes though, so he adjusted his grip on the stack and made for the door.

“You blow yourself up,” Future Martin said quietly, still lying down, when Tim was halfway out. 

“Any particular reason?”

“Well, you take out an army of evil clowns and mannequins wearing human skin when you go.”

That stopped him. “Including…?”  _ Including the bastard that killed my baby brother? _

“Yeah.”

“Well.” Tim let that sit with him for a moment. In some version of reality, somewhere out there, he’d got his vengeance. And died for it. 

He did not feel better.

But, he supposed he didn’t actually feel any worse, either, so that was something. Was it enough for him to live with? Maybe. He’d have to think about it.

“Are they out there now?” he asked, and felt the venom in his tone but didn’t bother to change it. If this Martin knew everything, then he knew everything, and he wouldn’t blame him for getting a bit worked up.

“Yeah,” Martin said. “I’m going after them.”

“You’re gonna face down an army by yourself?”

“For a start.” Martin turned his head to look at Tim. “You four aren’t the only ones who need saving. And I don’t think I can save everyone, Daisy’ll probably put up a fight, but I can at least try. Talk to Melanie, keep an eye on Helen. Hell, maybe I’ll go to America and try and find Gerard Keay.” He looked back up at the ceiling, and suddenly seemed very small. Very tired. “I think Jon would’ve liked me to do that.”

“He’d tell you not to be an idiot, and you were only going to get yourself killed.” 

“Yeah,” Martin agreed, as if they had both said the same thing, and then his breathing evened out, and he was asleep again.

Tim, no more relaxed than he’d been ten minutes prior, slipped back out into the larger Archives. He stashed the tapes in Sasha’s locker (It was the only one with a working lock, and Jon didn’t know the combination), and ducked into the breakroom for some water.

“Tim?”

Oh, right. 

“Hey, Sash.”

“Can’t sleep either?”

“Nah.” He considered telling her about Jon. He considered telling her about what Future Martin had said. He considered, for the millionth time, telling her about Danny. He knew she’d listen, especially now, but the same thing that’d stopped him a million times before stopped him once again, and he just shrugged.

“C’mere then,” she said, and in the dim light he could see her reaching her arms up, creating a space to pull him down onto the sofa with her. 

“Alright,” he squeezed himself in between her and the cushions, “but if you take this opportunity to make a move on me I’m reporting you to Jon for inappropriate workplace behaviours.”

“You’re an inappropriate workplace behaviour,” Sasha muttered, burying her face into his chest and lifting his hand up to stroke her hair.

The weight of her was good, much better than the scarf had been. And the sounds of the Archives were still here, but now they were drowned out by Sasha’s even breathing. Tim focused on that, and on the feel of her hair beneath his hand, and started to feel the anxious energies slip away.

He had a lot to think about. So much, in fact, that he found himself unable to think about it at all. It could wait until morning, he supposed. If he had anything, he had time.

At some point, he fell asleep.

* * *

Sasha found the tapes the next morning.


	6. The Archivist, regarding The Death of Jonathan Sims

Click.

_ Footsteps, echoing through a space that is grand but not large, new but has always existed. The breathing of those who have travelled far and will travel further before they drop. _

_ Later: _

_ A lull. The footsteps do not slow but they do not speed up, either. One set sure and steady, the other only a half of an echo behind. The wind changes, whistling through empty windows and sending the dust of broken statuary swirling. So faint that perhaps the wind did not actually change at all. _

_ Later: _

_ Air that is so high up it is thin. Not that that’s a problem, here at the end of the world. _

_ Later:  _

_ Hasty footsteps. A retreat, scrambling backward.  _

_ “Come now, Archivist. Don’t tell me you’re so stubborn that you’re really ignoring the truth. You’re never going to  _ win _ by running from what you are. This is  _ our _ world now.” _

_ A mirthless laugh in response. Dry, not often used. The laugh of one more used to laughing with his eyes then his throat. And even then, not used to laughing much at all any more.  _

_ ”We’re not playing your games, Elias.” A different voice, tinged with nerves because that laughter did  _ not _ sound right.  _

_ “Our Archivist certainly seems to be enjoying himself.” Smug as ever, mistakenly thinking he is the cause of the nerves. _

_ He is not. _

_ “I’m not enjoying anything.” The laughter is gone now, but lurking. “It’s just… You think any part of this is  _ your _ world?” _

_ The wind stops swirling. Is directed, now, inward from all angles. Windows strain, hair snaps, cold stone does little to break the wind’s path. There is a crack, distantly. The separation of stone and the beginning of its long fall to the earth below. _

_ “Do you feel it, Jonah Magnus? I know you can see it all from up here, know you’ve been watching, but do you  _ feel _ it?” A hum breaks through the wind. Something high and low all at once. “Not just the terror of your victims, but the pain? The sickening dread in the stomach, the relentless. Gnawing. Knowledge?” _

_ “It’s not my job to  _ feel _ , Archivist.” _

_ “No. No, I suppose it isn’t.” The smallest possible consideration. “In other circumstances, I suppose you could count yourself lucky. There’s only so many victims a single person can terrorize, even in several lifetimes. And anyway, the fears of the dead do not belong to me.” _

_ All fades away now, save for the echoing of his words. And, faintly: _

_ “Jon? Oh, not  _ now _ , of all the times...” _

_ “In much the same way, Jonah, the fears of the living are not yours. You may watch, here in your high tower, drink them in, behold for the sake of beholding, but you are, in the end, simply a tool. There’s nothing inherently special about you, save perhaps your commitment. Do you ever think on the enemies you have killed by violent force? The friends you have killed by equally violent neglect? The love you have had, and then lost, and barely spared a moment to mourn. _

_ “You never hated me before. Odd of you to decide to start now, only after I’ve killed your... “ A slight breath. “You know, even with the ability to read through your mind, I have no idea how to describe what Peter Lukas was to you. Knowing is not the same as understanding, I suppose. Did you understand what you were doing, when you sent me in after him? You had to have known. You knew what you’d turned me into, how far I was willing to go. But you still thought- No. You  _ hoped _.  _

_ “Nasty little thing, isn’t it? Runs right up alongside hubris. You want to think, with the power of a god on your side, that you couldn’t possibly lose. You can do whatever you want. You can fight, and claw your way to the top, and everything will end up alright. But it’s all just a very entertaining charade, keeping you occupied until the inevitable and horrific realization that you were  _ wrong _.  _

_ “So, I suppose Martin is correct, that we’re not playing your game. We never were. It was always somebody else’s, whether the Web or the Eye or just the cold, uncaring universe. I don’t think you ever even really knew the rules.” _

_ “Jon.” A hard tone driven by soft emotion. _

_ “Hm?” _

_ “What are you doing?” _

_ “Not hesitating, if that’s what you’re worried about. But it does take some digging around to find fear in a man who already knows everything.” _

_ The wind grows heavy. The humming rises. Bright, clear, all in sharp focus despite the soft underlying static.  _

_ A small grunt of discomfort, reluctantly pulled from a man rarely made uncomfortable. Even rarer to get him to show it.  _

_ “Unpleasant, isn’t it, Jonah? Sitting in all those feelings? The Institute staff is out there, after all. Everyone’s just a little bit afraid of their boss.” _

_ “Is that really what you think my weak point is? Making me feel  _ inadequate _?”  _

_ “Oh, no, I just wanted you to feel everyone separately from the Archive staff. I’d hate for anyone to get washed out in the flood.” _

_ “Bit full of yourself, Archivist. There’s only, what, four of you left now?” _

_ “Ah, but as we already established, the fear that  _ I _ feel is not, necessarily, just my own.” _

_ A beat. Two realizations, a heartbeat apart.  _

_ “No-” _

_ “Oh, yes. Tell me, how would you like to feel the suffering of billions of souls, all at once?” _

_ “To be perfectly honest with you, I really wouldn’t.” _

_ “Neither would I. But here we are.” _

_ “Killing me won’t bring your world back.” A desperate gambit, one last kick before going down. _

_ “I know that. And you know? I really don’t care.” _

_ A slight rise in the hum, energetic and bloodthirsty. _

_ An attempt to go with dignity, without begging or crying out. _

_ A failure. _

_ And then relative silence, back to the wind outside and the thrum still hovering in the air. All is as it was before. Nothing is as it was before. _

_ “Fuck. You did it. You- You did it!” A burst of laughter, a touch too frantic.  _

_ “Yes. He’s gone.” _

_ “You don’t sound overly pleased.” _

_ “Obviously I’m not  _ pleased _ , Martin.” _

_ “Well, yeah, obviously.” _

_ “It’s just… I knew this whole time it wouldn’t make a difference. But I think there was still some part of me that… I don’t know, hoped it might?” _

_ “Nasty little thing, isn’t it.” _

_ A breath that could be called a laugh if you were being generous. “Yes, it is.” _

_ “So what now?” _

_ “I don’t know.” _

_ “We’ll figure it out.” A pause, waiting for a response that does not come. “Jon? Jon. Hey.” Pulling close, the encircling of arms. “We’ll figure it out.” _

_ “Right.” _

_ “Elias is gone. That’s step one.” _

_ A small snort. “I think there were at least a few steps that came before that, dear.” Then the levity is gone. “He wasn’t nearly the most dangerous thing in this world.” _

_ “Then let’s go after that next.” A heavy silence. “Oh, you mean… You.” _

_ “Don’t worry about it. Georgie has a plan.” _

_ “Does she? When did you make that?” _

_ “Oh, I didn’t. I don’t even think I’m supposed to know she has one.” _

_ “But she does have one?” _

_ “I’d be surprised if she didn’t.” _

_ “Jon.” _

_ “Yes, yes.” _

_ A small silence. Not quite waiting, not quite hesitating, not quite comfortable. _

_ “You know, Martin, now that I get a chance to look at it properly, it’s… almost beautiful from up here, isn’t it?” _

_ “No.” _

_ “Hm. You can’t see it, I suppose.” _

_ “Oh no, I can see it just fine. Pain and suffering in every direction, without an end in sight.” _

_ “Precisely.” _

_ “ _ Jon _.” _

_ “What? There’s a sort of a… balance to it. Neatly organized, categorized… The boundaries blurring naturally into each other…” _

_ “Your Archivist is showing.” _

_ “Well, why not? I mean, loook at it. Every fear, gathered together, all being experienced simultaneously, over and over again. And above, the Eye watches over it all. Seem familiar?” _

_ A small realization. “It’s the Archives. Brought to life.” Smaller words. “I thought you said  _ you _ were the Archives now.” _

_ “Just the interface for them, I think.” A breath, as if to continue. _

_ “Don’t you dare drop into another Statement.” _

_ “I-” And a hesitation now, for this truth that will signal the final act. “I don’t think I ever dropped  _ out _.” _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ There is a space, here, that masquerades as silence. It is not. There is motion, always, the creaks and clatters and groans of a place well-used and ill-loved. There is a hum, faded but steady, that has always been there and always will. There is a sound that needs no description. You know what a spider sounds like. _

_ “Jon.” Alarm, suddenly. “Jon, look at me.” _

_ “Trust me, I am.” _

_ “You’re scaring me.” _

_ A genuine laugh, bittersweet, affectionate. “It’s about damn time.” _

_ “Jon, wh- Your  _ eyes _ , oh God-” _

_ “Martin, listen.” _

_ “No! You’ve got webs growing over your eyes, where did those  _ come _ from?” _

_ “I think we both know the answer to that.” _

_ “I’m gonna kill her. I am actually going to kill her.” _

_ “No, you’re not. Look. I don’t know what’s about to happen, but I expect that when it’s done I will be dead. And if and when that happens you cannot be here, because the Archives needs an Archivist and you are the next best thing.” _

_ A high pitch, panicked, “What are you  _ talking  _ about?” _

_ “Why did you start listening when I made Statements?” _

_ “I don’t know, I-” _

_ “ _ Why _.” The power is palpable, audible. _

_ “Because I hate being left out of it! I need to know if there’s something going on, something you’re not telling me. Because usually, there is. Like now!” _

_ “And?” _

_ “And…” The words are pulled out, reluctantly, inevitably, angrily. “And I miss reading them. It feels familiar, it feels… good.” A pause. “Fuck you.” _

_ “You woudn’t have admitted it otherwise, and I’m inclined to think that includes lying to yourself as much as to me.” _

_ “You really are a prick sometimes.” _

_ “I’ve been told.” _

_ “You’re not going to die.” _

_ “Hope isn’t going to get you anywhere.” _

_ “You’re  _ not _.  _ Going. To. Die _ ” _

_ “Hubris it is, then.” _

_ “Stop it. You said it yourself, killing the Avatars doesn’t do anything, so what’s the point? Who is this going to save?” _

_ “Me.” A moment, to collect. “I can feel what I am becoming. I don’t want to, but I’m already mostly there. I don’t think I have it in me to stop. And even if it doesn’t work, it’ll save you, hopefully, from being next in line. God, Martin, if nothing else, can I just try and save you?” _

_ Tears, now. “Don’t you  _ dare _.” _

_ “I’m sorry.” _

_ A new voice, distant but clear. “Jon! Martin!” _

_ “That’ll be Georgie. Melanie too, at a guess.” _

_ “Don’t act like this is already decided.”  _

_ “There’s no other way to act. This was always how it was going to-” _

_ Silence. _

_ “Jon?” Fear so palpable it vibrates in the air. _

_ A small breath, a soft voice. “God, it’s so… quiet.” _

_ A collapse. Caught in loving arms, lowered clumsily to the floor.  _

_ “No. No, no, no, please.” Shaking. Everything shaking. “It’s too fast, you should still have, have,  _ days _ , at least, before-” _

_ “Martin. I love you so much. I wish we’d ever stood a chance.” _

_ “Don’t  _ say _ that.” Suddenly, desperately, knowing against hope that there will not be another opportunity. “I love you too.” _

_ “Despite everything about me?” _

_ “Because of it, damn you.” _

_ “Ha. Too late. Damned myself a long time ago.” _

_ A laugh, breaking through sobs before it can be apprehended. _

_ A moment. Tears falling onto cold skin. Footsteps, distant and ignored but getting closer nonetheless. A gentle hand on a shaking shoulder.  _

_ “Georgie, you said he’d survive it.” The coldness of one betrayed. _

_ “I said he might.” The sorrow of one who had once loved a man now dead. “Guess there wasn’t enough of him left.” _

_ “There was  _ everything _ of him left, he was right  _ there!”

_ From a short distance: “He held on less than a minute without that thing fuelling him. Come on, we have to get going.” _

_ Arms tightening around a chest gone silent. “Don’t touch me.” _

_ Hands that pause, retreat “There’s no time.” _

_ “Let me  _ mourn _ , Georgie!” _

_ “Save your humanity first. You’ll have all the time in the world to mourn later with the rest of us.” _

_ Later:  _

_ Soft goodbyes and the beginning of one final push to the finish line. Footsteps back down the way they came, through the hallways once grand, now tiny and echoing.  _

_ Somewhere in the distance, more legs. Ones that need no description.  _

_ “Georgie, keep watch.” _

_ “On it.” _

_ A few steps away. _

_ “Alright, Martin, look. This isn’t how I wanted anything to go.” _

_ “As if you haven’t tried to kill Jon before.” _

_ “And if I’d succeeded, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.” _

_ “Are you  _ serious _ right now? You really think-” _

_ “I am trying to make a point. There’s nothing we can do now to put things back the way they were. The only time we could’ve fixed it is before it even happened. So get in.” _

_ A moment, to see what is in front of him. “You can’t be serious.” _

_ “Unfortunately, we are.” _

_ “You’re saving me from one Entity just to feed me to another?” _

_ “She won’t hurt you. She owes Annabelle a favour.” _

_ “Of course she does. If it’s so important, why haven’t you gone and done it, then?” _

_ “Apparently Jon had to be marked by all fifteen entities to bring on the Apocalypse. You’ve also been marked by all fifteen. The math cancels out.” _

_ “Great.” Some muttering, and an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Okay, you know what? Fine. Fine. Can’t be much worse than anything else that’s happened today, can it?” _

_ The slide of a doorknob turning.  _

_ An open.  _

_ A distant, distorted, delighted laugh. _

_ A close. _

Click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was entirely an exercise in trying out a new writing style, I did my very best and I hope it reads well! Also this is much more delayed than I was expecting it to be, but it does mean I got to pepper in some Martin Saltiness toward Annabelle, so that was fun. 
> 
> Also, let's play "Find the Mechanisms Reference"


	7. Sasha James, regarding Her Future (Or Lack Thereof)

It felt like a while before Sasha came back to herself, sat there on the floor of the locker room. She’d known, obviously. Future Martin had _told_ them, right to their faces, that they’d all died. And she’d listened to some of those tapes, she _knew_ what Jon had become. She’d thought it would be fine, hearing it firsthand, since she already knew what to expect. Artefact Storage alone had given her night terrors for life. What were a few more?

Instead, here she was, completely out of it, tears drying on her cheeks. Strange. She didn’t remember crying. 

She didn’t… really know what to do next. There were still a few tapes left she hadn’t listened to, but it was sort of pointless now, wasn’t it? It would all be more of the same. 

Still, she-

The door opened, and Sasha jumped, putting a hand over the tapes as if she could hide them. She suddenly felt as if she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to, which actually, was probably true. 

Martin looked at her, paused, looked at her again. So, Future Martin, then. He’d been doing that ever since he’d shown up. 

He didn’t say anything, though. Just crossed the room, put his back to the wall, and slid down ‘til he was sat next to her. 

She wiped her eyes, which turned out to be pointless since she was still, apparently, crying. There wasn’t even any feeling in it, as far as she could tell. Just a faucet of tears she couldn’t figure out how to turn off. Wasn’t unprecedented. Probably just shock.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. 

Martin brought his knees up to his chest and curled himself around them. “Yeah.”

“But you, um, you and Jon, then?”

“Yeah.” Much quieter.

“You crazy son of a bitch, you did it.”

Martin laughed a little at that. He took in a breath like he was going to say something, but didn’t, and so Sasha stayed quiet, waiting for him to speak. Who was Martin Blackwood going to be today? Who was she going to be in response?

“It’s weird,” he said, “Coming back and seeing you all from an outside perspective, before it went completely to shit. I’m trying so hard not to treat Jon like he’s my boyfriend. I think I might have overshot. He probably thinks I hate him.”

“It is coming off a bit like that, yeah.”

“Got to be giving him whiplash or something, going back and forth between the two Martins.”

“I dunno. Maybe it’s the kick in the ass he needs to admit he actually likes you.”

Martin scoffed. “Last time, it took him a cult of evil mannequins trying to steal his skin and end the world.”

“Well, I’d say that’s roughly on the same world-shaking scale as Martin Blackwood being mean to him.”

“I’ve not been _mean_ to him-”

“You have! He definitely deserves it, if that makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t.”

She shrugged. “Didn’t think it would.”

“You _cannot_ tell them,” Martin said. 

Sasha grimaced. “I’d like to give _some_ good news from the future.”

“No, Sasha, I mean it. If Jon gets even the _slightest_ idea that there’s a future where he ends up with me, he will actively refuse to let himself develop those feelings. And I know I’d spend the entire time wondering if any of it was real, or if he was just giving me a chance because he thought he was supposed to. Trust me, it’s just… better if they don’t know. That way if things _do_ end up happening, nobody’s stuck here wondering if they’re being manipulated into it.”

“That is _far_ too much overthinking.”

“Overthinking is sort of the way we go about it.”

“You’re not wrong.” She stared at the opposite wall for a bit, letting herself drift in thought. She hadn’t slept well last night, at least not ‘til Tim came in. He’d been taking everything harder than he was letting on, but still wouldn’t talk to her about it. She vaguely remembered him telling her once, back when they were a maybe-going-to-be-something that still got drunk together and decidedly did _not_ sleep together (until they did), about why he’d got a job at the Institute in the first place. She didn’t remember the details, but she’d always thought since then that they were opposites, she and Tim - he’d had all his supernatural experiences before the Institute, she after. Why he’d wanted to run _into_ the fire instead of away from it, she couldn’t fathom. Same reason she’d listened to the tapes, she supposed. Same reason she requested to be transferred out of Artefact Storage instead of just quitting it all for good. Or maybe some other reason. She seemed to recall him being sort of angry all the time, back when they met. She could probably spend years guessing what had happened to him, and she wouldn’t quite get it.

And you know what, speaking of things she couldn’t quite get:

“Hey Martin?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you know who I am?”

Martin tensed up a little. She wouldn’t have even noticed it if she wasn’t pressed up against his side, but it was definitely there. Just the tiniest flinch. “What do you mean?”

“You keep looking at me like I’m a stranger.”

Martin flinched again. 

“I didn’t think much of it at first,” Sasha continued, “Because at the time I didn’t even know if you _were_ Martin. In fact, I was thinking of bringing it up as an argument against you being him. But then we spoke to you for, like, five minutes and you so obviously _are_ Martin, I just… I assume something horrible happens to me, but I can’t even imagine what.”

Martin looked at her, for the first time since sitting down, and she saw it again. The half-second delay between him seeing her and him registering her as Sasha James, Archival Assistant, His Coworker, His Friend. He did it every time. Whatever it was, it wasn’t getting easier for him.

“Do you really want to know?” he asked. “It’s… not pleasant.”

“Seen a lot of not-pleasant things, Martin. Is it much worse?”

Martin made a noncommittal noise. “About par, but I won’t go into the gory details.”

“Thanks for that.”

He was silent for a moment, and looked back at the wall across from them. “Do you remember that one statement where the woman kept creeping on her neighbour?”

“Gonna have to be a little more specific, mate.”

“She was spying on him, and he ate his notebooks?”

Ah yes, she remembered it now. “Right, Graham Whatshisname, with the creepy notebooks. “Keep watching” and all that, and then he supposedly got bodysnatched and she was the only one who noticed?”

Martin didn’t say anything. 

“Wait. Fuck, really?”

“In about two weeks, Jon is going to stumble across Jane Prentiss gathering her strength in the tunnels, and she’ll attack. You’ll get separated from the rest of us, and wind up in artefact storage where the table is.”

“There’s no table in artefact storage.”

“No? Suppose they haven’t delivered it yet, then. Anyway, the table is a prison, holding the thing that took Graham, and it, ah, gets you.”

“It gets me,” Sasha echoed. She’d already filled her breakdown quota for the day, and now she just felt hollow. Two weeks. In an uninterrupted timeline, she only had two weeks left to live, and there’s no way she’d ever have known. “But you know it happened, so… you must remember me.”

Martin scowled a little. “No. None of us do, at least, it’s- Have you met Melanie King yet?”

“The YouTuber. We talked about haunted pubs.”

“Right. She remembers that. From what I gather, she comes back and makes a joke to Jon about us getting a new Sasha, and he obviously has no idea what she’s talking about, and it all just sort of goes downhill from there.” He sighed, and then cleared his throat and continued, a bit too quickly: “But it won’t now. Prentiss is gone and hopefully we’ll all be out of here before the table even arrives. And you’ll be alright. Everything will be alright.

Sasha leaned her head back against the wall, letting it cool her, ground her. She almost laughed, but couldn’t quite reach the part of her that might find it funny. _Everything will be alright_. “God. If anything, it really is good to know you can go through everything you did and still come out the other end as Martin Blackwood.”

* * *

"Sasha, I need your…” Jon froze mid-knock and stared at her. “...help. What are you doing?”

Sasha looked up from the piles and piles of tape swirling over her desk, yanked roughly out of its plastic casing. “I think it’s very obvious what I’m doing.” She _snipped_ the tape free with a pair of office scissors.

Jon winced. “...Why?”

“Because you were about to come in here and ask me to help you steal them from Future Martin.”

Jon frowned, and then frowned deeper. “These are the, ah,”

“The secret ones that he hid from us, yes.” _Snip_. 

Jon winced again. Hard to say whether that was the beginning of his connection to the tapes, or just the usual how-dare-you-destroy-any-form-of-information standard that Jon touted around all the time.

“Look, Jon. Do you trust Martin?”

“He’s not exactly the most reliable employee.”

“No, that’s me. But do you trust him as a person? To always do what’s best for you?”

“What he _thinks_ is best for me,” Jon amended. “I trust his intentions, not necessarily his… judgement.” 

“What about _my_ judgement, then?” _Snip_.

Jon studied her for a moment. “You listened to them.”

“A few of them, yeah.” _Snip_ . “I don’t want to listen to the rest, and I don’t think anybody else should, either.” _Snip_. 

Jon hummed. “Alright, then. Yes, I… I trust you.”

“And Martin?”

“And Martin,” he conceded. 

“Great. Pick up some scissors and start trimming.”

Jon frowned at the absolute mess on her desk. “I have a better idea.”

* * *

By the time Sasha gathered up the remnants of tape and made her way to the courtyard she was the last one there. Future Martin was sort of lurking in the corner. Tim and Martin were dropping scraps of paper into a wastebasket, feeding what appeared to be a very small fire. Jon stood back, hands shoved into his pockets, absolutely glowering at them. 

“This _was_ your idea,” Tim reminded him.

“I know that,” Jon grumbled, “But I didn’t think you’d be burning _statements_.”

“We’re burning statements anyway, aren’t we?” Martin asked. “In for a penny, in for a pound?”

Jon frowned at him, but didn’t argue. “Ready, Sasha?”

“Yup.” She held up the plastic shopping bag full of all the magnetic tape she’d pulled out of Future Martin’s secret cassettes. 

“Do it, then.”

She dropped the bag into the wastebasket. For a second she worried she might’ve smothered the flames, but then the plastic started to bubble, spewing up a plume of dark, foul-smelling smoke. 

“Next,” she said, and Martin stepped up with his handfuls of tape. Between the five of them they’d ripped apart every one of Future Martin’s recordings. Well, four of them. She hadn’t actually seen Future Martin between the breakroom and now, but she could understand why he’d made an appearance for the burning. There was an odd sort of vindication in watching the black strips pucker into nothing. It was as if, in destroying the record, she was destroying Jon’s fate. Now, with no evidence that he ever had been or would be killed by becoming an eldritch monstrosity, his future was entirely open.

And maybe hers was, too. 

Martin frowned at the wastebasket. “Maybe I should’ve listened to just one of them?” 

“Nope.

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

Martin put his hands up and stepped back. “Alright, alright. Tim?”

Tim dropped his tapes without a word, stared into the fire for a moment, then nodded resolutely at Jon.

Jon sighed, and stepped forward slowly. He opened his hand, releasing a scrunched-up ball of tape that was barely big enough to be a full recording. “There,” he said, as it was devoured by the flames, “Are we happy now?”

“Not particularly,” said Martin. 

“Wait a second,” said Martin, again, from further away.

Future Martin stepped up to their circle, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a tape. He looked at it for a second, like he was saying goodbye, then took a breath and popped open the top. Sasha could barely make out the word _Cabin_ , in what she recognized by now as Jon’s round handwriting. She could’ve sworn that had been in her to-listen pile this morning.

With a determined set to his jaw, Martin reached a finger in and yanked the tape out, pulling until he’d unraveled nearly the entire roll. Then, he dropped the whole thing into the fire, cassette and all.

“All gone now,” he said, and she got the feeling he didn’t just mean the tape.

“How nice,” a voice said from behind Sasha, where the door was that led back into the Institute. She didn’t have to look to know who it was. She didn’t have to see him to know he was smiling that frustrating, lazy smile he had, that up until yesterday she’d chalked up to his quick, undeserved climbing of the corporate ladder.

“Elias,” said Tim. “How was the vacation?”

“Lovely, thank you Tim, though I will admit I was… disappointed to have to cut it short.” He raised a gun and levelled it at Future Martin. “Bit like your life, if you think about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else think about how Sasha being killed off early due to the actor having to leave is actually very in-line with her being next up for the Archivist position (due to her past in Artefact Storage meaning she had likely been touched by multiple entities already) but Jon got it because he was explicitly sent by the Web and Elias took that as a sign? And that because she was planned to be on the show longer she likely has a whole backstory that never made it to the final cut? And that her backstory is likely very similar to what Tim's ended up being? But she hid it behind "a lifetime of interest in the paranormal"? But also because she didn't get much characterization in s1 everyone's fanon interpretation of her is slightly different and it results in a weird sort of collective misunderstanding of who Sasha is as a person, which wraps back around to being extremely Stranger of her???? or is that just me


	8. Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims, regarding The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a slightly longer one! Lots of Content (tm)

For a brief, shining moment, nothing happened. Nobody moved, blinked, so much as breathed. Martin figured it would be a second before any of the Archive crew caught up - it was one thing to be told your employer was an evil, immortal murderer, it was definitely another to see him level a gun at your friend.

“Now,” Elias said, “Why don’t you-”

Martin snapped his fingers.

His ears popped.

And the Lonely flooded in.

In some ways, it was different than he remembered. Before, it had just been a big, confusing mess, suffocating him in his own feelings. Then it was… comfortable. Like a cushion he could sink into and forget himself in. And  _ then _ , he’d found himself at home in it. Like it wasn’t using him any more, and he could use  _ it _ instead, if he tried. 

This was… something in the middle of all that. He didn’t have Jon, and he didn’t have a space carved out for him by the Eye. He was truly Lonely now, in a universe where he didn’t belong. But what he did have, for what felt like the first time in a good long while, was a clear idea of what to do next. This could be over. He could leave it all behind for good.

Just so long as he was the one to finish it.

“Well, Martin, I must say you’ve impressed me somewhat.” Elias stood, gun down but still poised, in a clear spot in the fog. He looked almost… curious. 

“Have you ever actually been in the Lonely before?” Martin asked, letting his voice come from multiple directions. He didn’t think Elias could hurt him in here, but still. Best not give him something to aim at.

“Can’t say I’ve had the opportunity. Oh, Peter always threatened, of course. I assume that’s who taught you this neat little trick?”

“We both know that  _ you _ don’t have to assume anything.”

“Hm.” Elias frowned, peering into the fog. In completely the wrong direction. It wasn’t much, but Martin let himself feel a bit smug about it. Small victories in times like these.

“I’m a bit surprised about the gun,” Martin said. “I knew you had it in you, but you always seemed to find it distasteful. Thought you’d go for the usual plan. Then again,” he shrugged, then remembered Elias couldn’t see him. “What could you possibly show me that I don’t already know?”

“You do realize there’s nothing left for you-” Elias attempted. 

“Exactly.” Martin stepped out in front of Elias, who gripped the gun tighter, but kept it pointed down. “I have nothing to lose. Not like you.”

Elias just looked at him. Looked  _ through _ him, probably, but Martin didn’t worry about it. The Lonely was just a bunch of lies, he knew, and any avatar of the Beholding was going to see through them eventually. Just, hopefully not before-

Elias’ eyes widened. “No.”

Martin grinned. “What, you thought I’d fall into the Institute, find you absent, and  _ not _ try and get into the Panopticon? Had to find some way to deal with your body.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Try me.”

“No, you  _ are _ bluffing, Martin, because none of the others-”

“None of them were thinking about it because none of them know. They would’ve given it all away. I needed them to lead you off track. And I needed  _ you _ to be  _ here.” _

He felt the floor grow solid under his feet. The air stilled into a damp darkness. He’d only been here twice - three times if you counted post-Apocalypse - but he could picture it clearly in his mind. The domed ceiling, the perfect circle of cells, the intricate brickwork designed for some ritualistic purpose long since forgotten. And, at the centre of it all, Jonah Magnus, surrounded by stacks of some of Gertrude’s old C4.

And this was it. He knew it would be disorienting, even for Elias. All he needed was one good shot. 

Or, scratch that, not even a  _ good _ one. Any shot would do, so long as it hit. And that’d be hard to avoid, at these close quarters.

He lunged at Elias, still shaking off the Lonely. Reached for the gun, ready to pull it away, ready to fire-

Elias grabbed his wrist. Shoved him back, the gun clattering to the floor. 

Martin felt his hand going numb, like Elias had cut off his nerves when he’d touched him. The room got brighter, colder. The air grew heavy and oppressive, pushing him to his knees. He could see his breath puffing out in front of him, a weak little imitation of the power he’d had just a moment ago.

It was still getting brighter. It shouldn’t be possible to have this much light down here. It almost  _ hurt _ , after all that darkness.

“I’d say it was a good plan,” Elias said from somewhere above him, “But it really wasn’t.”

_ No. No, no, no, no, no… _

The gun. He couldn’t see it, could barely keep his eyes open against the brightness now, but he knew it had fallen to the left. So long as he hadn’t got turned around, he could find it. He scrambled forward on hands and knees, reaching out for it with his bad hand-

_ The gun the gun where’s the gun think about the gun just the gun- _

And desperately fumbling in his jacket pocket with the other. He didn’t want to die, not here, not now, not when he was so close to seeing the world again. The world as it should be, with normal people living normal lives. He could have that. He could start a new life, and maybe he’d never forget, never stop mourning Jon, never stop waking up with a scream dying in his throat. But he could try. He could at least give himself a chance. 

At least he’d already done that for Sasha. Hadn’t he? That could be enough. It  _ had _ to be enough. It had to be. He did not want to die.  But he would if he had to.

He could barely feel his fingers. Barely feel anything, except the cold and the light, seeping in through every pore. 

And there was something… a sound. A humming? No. Clicking? No, no, it was a… whirring. He knew that sound. A tape. Elias wouldn’t have turned on a tape. So… was it a sign to keep going? A hand to hold in his final moments? Or maybe just an idle observer, recording his end for the sake of posterity and academia.

“Hello,” Martin whispered, far too quiet for the tape to pick up, but he knew it'd make it onto the recording loud and clear. 

There was something warm and wet on his cheeks. Great. He was crying, alone, on the floor, buried so far under London nobody would ever find him. What a way to go.

But then his hand brushed against plastic. The rubber of a grip. The slight give of a trigger. He gripped it, rolled over, opened his eyes to the pain. 

He squeezed.

The light went out. 

* * *

There was a gunshot.

Maybe, if Jon was willing to be skeptical, he could say it was a car backfiring, or some kind of crash from the street outside. But they’d never been able to hear any of that from down here before, and besides, it sounded far too close. 

He also, unfortunately, couldn’t mistake the way his assistants looked up when they heard it. Martin nearly cracked his mug with how hard he flinched. He’d been sat there on the sofa with it for nearly fifteen minutes now, ever since Future Martin and Elias had blinked out of existence and Tim had corralled them all back inside to, quote, “wait it out somewhere safer”. 

Jon seriously doubted that inside the breakroom was any more secure than the courtyard, but. It was something to do. Martin had made them all tea, silent the whole while, but so far he hadn’t even taken a sip from his own mug. He was just staring into it, letting it cool in his hands. He was shaken - unsurprising, given the circumstances, but it also showed how relatively  _ un _ shaken Martin had been up to this point. 

“D’you think that was…” Sasha trailed off, very pointedly didn’t look at Martin.

“I expect we’ll find out shortly,” Jon said. 

They all fell into silence once more. Even Tim was more sullen than Jon had ever seen him. Or- no, that wasn’t quite true. He’d been like this a few times over the years, especially back when they first met. Jon had never asked about it. He didn’t really want to know.

He was struck, suddenly, by the realization that that might not have been the right choice. Didn’t know how he felt about that. Not good.

“I’m going to look,” Sasha announced suddenly, slamming the breakroom refrigerator shut after fruitlessly digging into it for the fourth time. 

Tim shook his head. “You can’t just-”

“What if he needs help?” Sasha asked. 

“What if it’s Elias?”

“Then he’s not going to be stopped by us hiding in here, is he?” Sasha shot back.

Martin said something quietly from the sofa.

“Speak up?” said Jon.

“I said I quit,” Martin said, not much louder. He set his tea down, still untouched. “I hate this job, and I hate the Archive,s and I never want to set foot in this  _ fucking _ building ever again in my life.” He looked up, face set like stone. “I quit.”

Everyone just looked at him for a moment. 

“No,” Jon said. 

Martin went red. “ _ No? _ But-”

“No,” Jon said again. “Martin, you’ve never been a very good assistant, and I really should have done this a long time ago. You’re fired.”

“ _ Fired? _ But I just-”

“You are fired, Martin Blackwood,” Jon said, “And you will pack your things, take your severance pay, and leave my Archives.”

“Severance... Oh.” Martin sat back. “ _ Oh _ .” He, miraculously, smiled a tiny bit. 

“And Tim,” Jon wheeled on him. There was an odd thrill running through him. Something about newfound freedom. “We both know you’ve used Institute funds to bribe police officers.”

Tim grinned. “I take it I’m fired as well?”

“Precisely. I expect your desk to be cleared in an hour. Now Sasha-” Here, he faltered for a moment. Sasha had been, as far as he knew, an ideal employee for her entire career. 

“I destroyed a  _ lot _ of company property about twenty minutes ago,” she pointed out. 

“Ah-” Jon blinked. He’d almost forgotten about the statements. Imagine that. “Yes, that’s probably fireable…”

Sasha crossed her arms. “Probably? D’you want me to do some more? I can smash the coffeemaker.”

“No! Sasha, thank you, that will be perfectly sufficient. You are also fired.”

“And then you’re quitting?” a voice said from the doorway. 

Jon felt the air leave his lungs.

“Martin.” Tim said. “You’re…”

“Alive,” Future-Martin said. He limped into the room and set down a brick of… clay? On the coffee table, along with a small plastic device.

“Jesus!” Martin said - the present Martin. “Is that-”

Future-Martin nodded grimly. “Some of Gertrude’s old supplies.”

Jon found himself at a loss for words. He’d known Gertrude had more to her than she let on, but  _ explosives _ ? Stored somewhere  _ in the Institute _ ? ... _ Why _ ?

“And Elias?” he found himself asking.

“Dead,” Future-Martin said, clearly refusing to say anything more. He absentmindedly wiped a hand across his face, leaving red streaks across one cheek. “Actually, I’d better-“

He ducked down the hall to his office, picked up his telephone, and dialled a number, putting it on speakerphone so he had both hands free to lean down on the desk, still breathing hard. 

Jon followed, watching from the doorway with Tim. 

The phone clicked.  _ “Hello?” _

“Hello, is this Detective Daisy Tonner?”

A slight pause.  _ “It is.”  _

“Right. I’m calling from the Magnus Institute and-“

_ “Hang on.”  _ Some slight grumbling, shuffling of papers, rummaging in drawers.  _ “Alright, what is it this time?” _

Tim made a face at Jon.  _ This time? _ He mouthed. 

Jon just shrugged. 

“Elias Bouchard’s been killed,” Martin said. “The head of the Institute.”

_ “I can start an investigation-“ _

“Oh, there’s nothing to investigate. I shot him.”

_ “You-“  _ The detective was silent for a moment.  _ “So this is a confession?” _

“Sort of? There’s not a lot to confess. He was a monster, he attacked me, I defended myself, he’s dead now.”

_ “A monster.” _

“Yes. That’s why I called you. You come very highly recommended.”

A longer pause.  _ “What, specifically, are you looking for, Mr…” _

“Anonymous. I want you to do cleanup, and maybe some paperwork. I won’t be around when you come to pick him up, so if you have any other questions you can direct them to Peter Lukas. His contact information should be somewhere in the Institute’s file.”

A deep sigh from the other end of the line.  _ “Thank you for the tip.” _

“Have a nice day, Detective.” He hung up and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“The hell was  _ that _ ?” Tim demanded. 

“Long story,” Martin said. “Daisy works here eventually. She’ll be able to handle it. The important thing is that none of  _ us _ are here when she shows up.”

“Right,” Jon said, feeling some of the shock wear off and doing his best to put it right back on. “Right, well then. I suppose I’d better go… fill out those termination forms.”

He’d already half-filled them out anyway. The rest of it came automatically, and he let his hand check boxes and input dates without much say from his brain. He didn’t have anything for his own resignation, so he scribbled down a paragraph or so of an immediate notice and gave it tomorrow’s date.

And it was done. 

He clipped the forms together, got up to go, and-

There was a tape on his desk.

He picked it up. Was it one of the ones from Future-Martin, that he’d listened to last night? No, it didn’t have a label on it. Not a regular statement, then, either - he’d have marked it with the case number. And he swore it hadn’t been there a second ago.

He glanced at his door. Didn’t seem like there was much going on out there, and it’s not like they were in a rush…

God, he needed a cigarette. 

Or- no, that was wrong. He didn’t need a cigarette, he wasn’t craving nicotine, what he needed was… he needed…

_ He needed to listen to the tape.  _

Jon dropped it onto his desk and stepped back. He felt his heart start to race, his breath start to quicken. He wasn’t… afraid, exactly. He desperately tried to stop himself from recognizing the feeling as excitement, or anticipation, but who was he trying to fool? Himself? Never was a very good liar on that front.

The tape still just sat there.

_ No _ , Jon decided, after what was perhaps slightly too long of a consideration period. No, he’d just barely kicked a  _ normal _ addiction, he wasn’t about to let himself develop a supernatural one. If anything, he’d never be able to take himself seriously again. 

Though, to be perfectly honest, he didn’t fancy what this withdrawal was going to feel like.

He stalked out of his office and shut the door firmly behind him. The rest of the staff seemed ready to go, so he didn’t waste time heading for the exit. 

“Jon,” Martin said, catching him by the elbow at the bottom of the stairs. Future-Martin. “Before you go, I…” He took a breath and held out a tape. 

Oh, you’ve  _ got _ to be kidding. 

“I just thought-” Martin was saying. 

“Stop.” 

Martin blinked. “Sorry?”

Jon gently pushed the tape away. “If you have something to say to me, say it right now. Otherwise, just leave it.”

Martin looked at him for a second. Perhaps it was a testament to how badly he wanted to leave, but Jon’s skin prickled. It was exactly the same thing he’d done last night, sizing him up in a very un-Martin-like way, but this time it wasn’t nearly so pleasant. Perhaps it was the dried blood still crusted in patches against his hairline.

“Never mind then,” Martin said, and almost seemed sad. Disappointed?

“You’ll be alright?” Jon asked. He didn’t seem alright. He was standing oddly, shifting his weight. Then again, he had just killed a man. 

Good lord, add  _ that _ to the list of things Jon was going to have trouble reckoning with later. 

“We’ve been over it,” Martin said, nodding to the other three assistants. “I’ll get myself set up somewhere… far away from here. Don’t expect to see me again.”

Jon nodded. It was odd. He had, somewhere deep down, expected to be a bit sad to see this Martin go. He… liked him. Not necessarily more than the Martin he knew, mind you, but certainly in a different way. He’d found that he actually somewhat  _ enjoyed  _ being impressed by Martin Blackwood. 

But, as Jon headed up the stairs, feeling Future-Martin’s eyes on him as he climbed, he shivered.  _ Shivered _ . He was certain that Martin would keep his word, and they’d never see him again. And he couldn’t help but feel, for some incomprehensible reason, that that would be an exceptionally good thing for all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin can have a little action sequence.... as a treat


	9. Martin Blackwood, regarding His Newfound Unemployment

Tim dragged them all out for drinks. Martin didn’t really feel up to it, not after everything, but he also couldn’t stand the idea of going home and being by himself. It’d be the first time he’d stayed the night since Jane had decided to leave him alone, so if he was being honest with himself? Having a few drinks in him might actually be a good thing.

They wound up in a booth at some pub Martin hadn’t caught the name of. Felt generic enough that it was probably a chain. 

Honestly, it took him until nearly halfway through his first beer to really register what was going on. It was over. It was all over and done with, and everything was normal now. Right down to the agonizingly long time it’d taken Jon to file their forms with Rosie - who’d looked somewhat concerned, but not all that surprised that they were all leaving at once.

“That’s it, then?” She’d asked. 

“That’s it,” Sasha had nodded, then paused. “Rosie, in all your time working here, have you ever felt… strange? Genuinely strange, like you might be in danger.”

Rosie had just smiled a little. “Gave  _ my _ statement nearly a decade ago. If you want to read it,” she glanced down at the termination papers on her desk, “I’m afraid you’ll have to submit a request to the Archives.”

“Absolutely not,” Sasha had said. “Have a nice life, Rosie.”

“You too.”

And just like that-

“Oh, shit.” Martin said into his empty glass. Jon stopped in the middle of what he was saying and frowned at him. “I’m unemployed.”

Tim grinned. “Oh come on, Martin, what with  _ your _ qualifications I bet all sorts of places are just dying to scoop you-” he cut off suddenly and winced. Martin was pretty sure Sasha had kicked him under the table. 

“If you need any recommendations,” Jon said, somewhat hesitantly, and Martin nearly burst out laughing. Jonathan Sims, giving him a professional reference? He could only imagine what sort of scathing review that would be.

“Jon, if you’re going to lie about how much you’ve enjoyed having me as an employee,” Martin said, “It’s… probably only fair you know how much of a lie it is?”

Jon didn’t say anything. Martin wasn’t looking at him. Hadn’t looked at him since they’d sat down, just perched himself on the end of the seat to keep a respectable two feet between them. 

Tim was grinning at him like a madman from across the table, though, which was both encouraging and unnerving. 

“I, uh… I lied on my CV,” Martin said, and felt more than saw Jon’s eyebrows raise at him. “Look, it’s sort of a long story, but I dropped out of school at seventeen, and I needed a job to help with my Mum, but nowhere that paid enough would hire me, so I just started lying, nearly everything on there’s completely made-up. Apparently Elias knew about my fake parapsychology degree and thought it’d be funny to hire me and see how I did.”

“I always knew he must’ve put you in the Archives specifically to be a hindrance to me,” Jon mused, and it was… maybe a joke? Maybe. 

“I mean, yeah,” Tim said, “If he wanted us to be a successful team he would’ve made Sasha Head Archivist, not you.”

Jon floundered for a moment. “I- hang on.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “You were on a completely different career track, mate. Sasha’s got- what was it?”

“Ten years of experience and Masters in Information and Library Science?” Sasha said. 

“That’s the one.”

“Honestly, Jon,” she leaned across the table toward him, “We always just thought it was the Academia Boys’ Club, at it again with the promoting undeserving men.”

“Well,” Jon deadpanned, “Elias may have been a centuries-old murderer bent on bringing about the end of the world, but at least he wasn’t a sexist.”

Which was  _ definitely _ a joke. 

“Cheers to that!” Tim said, raising his glass and then draining it. 

“Martin does have a point, though,” Sasha said. “What  _ do _ we do now?”

“I would classify  _ that _ as a question for tomorrow,” said Tim. “But I’ll give you my prediction and proposal. We-” he paused for a small hiccup “-are going to swear that we’ll meet up here every week for drinks, to keep in contact, bond over horrific experiences, and make sure none of us got eaten by monsters in the past seven days.”

“I don’t think anyone ever got  _ eaten _ ,” Martin pointed out.

“Not by monsters,” Sasha muttered.

“And as time goes on,” Tim continued, pointedly ignoring them, “We will slowly start to make other plans, and then skip out on drinks, and then realize that it’s very nearly been two months since I saw the Archive crew, ah well, life goes on with or without them I suppose.” He punctuated this by going to take a drink, realizing he was empty, and reaching across to take a large sip of Jon’s very nearly untouched beer. 

“What, we just-” Martin could feel his stomach flip-flopping. “We never see each other again?”

Tim gave an exaggerated shrug. “Maybe we do, maybe we don’t.”

“Tim.” Jon glared at him. 

“Oh no, trust me, mate,” Tim said into his glass, suddenly seeming just a touch more sober, “This is nothing. Give yourself some time and distractions, and you’d be amazed at what can just become a footnote. A horrible, horrible footnote.”

* * *

True to Tim’s word, it was only a couple months later that Martin walked into the pub, ten minutes late, to see Jon sitting by himself in their regular booth. 

“No Tim or Sasha,” Jon said as he slid in across from him. 

“No?”

Jon shook his head. “They both just texted me. Within a minute of each other, in fact.”

“They made plans without us?”

“Apparently so. Honestly, it might be for the best. Not sure I can take any more third and fourth wheeling.”

Martin opened his mouth, realized he was about to make a joke about that being sort of like a double date, and closed his mouth. 

“Anyway,” Jon drummed his fingers on the table, “Since they’re not coming and I honestly did  _ not _ feel like getting drinks tonight, do you want to do something else?”

“Like… what?”

Jon scowled. “I don’t know, it’s only been five minutes. I don’t have an  _ itinerary _ , Martin.”

Martin put his hands up. “Okay, fine, fine. Let’s go, then.”

* * *

They ended up on a park bench somewhere, Jon picking at a packet of chips that had gone cold long before they sat down. Martin had run out of things to prattle on about, and Jon certainly wasn’t offering any, so they sat in silence, listening to the distant hum of nearby traffic.

Martin was still getting used to this. The Jon (who was not his boss) wasn’t all that different on the surface from the Jon (who was). If anything, he was even more brusque than before, but in a… blunter way. Like he didn’t feel the need to prove himself by being sharp, and could just relax into having a normal human personality. It was a lot closer to the pre-Archives Jon, if you listened to Tim. 

Jon tore off the end of a chip and threw it at a nearby bird. “Do you ever get… bored?” he asked, sounding out  _ bored  _ like it didn’t fit right in his mouth.

“Without the Archives. And the… statements.”

“Oh,” Martin said. “No, I sort of hated them, to be perfectly honest. Creeped me out.”

“Of course,” Jon muttered. He frowned into the distance. “I suppose  _ bored  _ isn’t the right word.”

“I know what you meant,” Martin said. “Everything we went through, everything we know, it’s been a bit difficult adjusting to normal life again.” He thought for a second. “D’you think there’s a support group for it?”

“Yes, it’s called the Magnus Institute. Would you like to make a statement?”

“Ha,” Martin said, which seemed to be the response Jon was looking for. “Have  _ you _ been bored?” 

“That still isn’t it,” Jon frowned. “It’s more… craving? Not really, but something like that. And I keep… seeing things.”

“D’you mean, like, real things, or trauma-induced things?”

Jon turned to look at him. “You know, Martin, I don’t think there’s much of a difference any more.”

“Very ominous, thanks for that.”

Jon smiled a little, with just the one side of his mouth, but it slid off his face after a moment. “I don’t know if I’ve… apologized. For how I treated you. Back at the Institute.”

“Oh.” Martin blinked. “It’s all right, I think we’ve been over that you were sort of justified.”

“Professionally, yes, but…” Jon sighed. “Personally. I have an explanation, if you want to hear it, but no excuse. So. I’m sorry.” He was still looking at him. 

“Thank you,” Martin said quietly. He took a few deep breaths. “Is the explanation anything to do with you being underqualified and me being the only person you could reasonably look down your nose at? Because we  _ have _ been over that.”

“Oh thank God, I did  _ not _ want to talk about it.”

Martin laughed, and Jon leaned back onto the bench, coincidentally shifting just the slightest bit closer. 

You know, he had really hoped that by distancing himself from Jon, only seeing him once a week, he’d finally be able to let go of that damn crush. And he’d thought it had worked at first. He’d stopped feeling so nervous around him, stopped worrying that everything he did was going to get him in some kind of trouble. There wasn’t so much pressure any more, to make himself likeable. He’d realized, unconsciously and then consciously, that if Jon didn’t genuinely want to spend time with him, he wouldn’t. But here he was, sat on a park bench throwing chips at birds. 

And then Martin realized that the only reason he no longer had a crush on Jonathan Sims was because he was in love with Jonathan Sims. 

Martin stood up very quickly, startling Jon’s birds. And also Jon. 

“Are you alright?” Jon asked, already on the edge of the bench like he was ready to get up and go at a moment’s notice. 

“Yes.” Too quickly. Martin sat down again. Also too quickly. Jon looked a bit alarmed. Of course he did, Martin was being weird. Right after Jon had been talking about seeing things. He probably thought Martin thought he was crazy or something.

“Are you sure?” Jon had turned to him completely now, one knee up on the bench. 

“Yes, Jon, I’m fine. I just… I’ve been a bit jumpy.” A good lie, because it was not technically untrue. “I mean, it’s hard not to be.”

“Right,” Jon said. “Yes, I understand that.” He swallowed, crumpled the empty paper in his hands, and looked resolutely over Martin’s shoulder. “Martin, I-” He stopped. Frowned at something in the trees.

Very suddenly, Martin realized how quiet the park was. How dark and empty, except for this small island of life containing him and Jon and what had become a veritable flock of pigeons. It hadn’t been this cold a minute ago, had it? It was barely September.

Without any communication, as far as Martin could tell, the two of them got up and left the park. It wasn’t until a few blocks away, well among the lights and people, that Martin felt how hard his heart was pounding. He thought for a second he might puke. Jon was still looking straight ahead.

“It’s not going to stop,” Jon said quietly. 

Martin could hear the hidden meaning in that.  _ It’s not going to stop, so you should get as far away from me as you can. _

“Can’t unsee what we’ve seen, I suppose,” Martin said, and shrugged. “At least now we know what to look for.” And he hoped Jon could at least hear the emphasis on  _ we.  _ If Jon was going to try and push him away to keep him safe, he was going to fail. Because that was a stupid plan, and they were definitely safer when they were keeping an eye on each other.

“Right,” Jon said, and then with slightly more conviction, “Right.” He cleared his throat. 

“Where are we going, anyway?” 

Martin blinked. “I thought I was following you.”

“Well, you weren’t.”

“Hm,” Martin said. “Well, in that case.” He pulled Jon around the nearest corner. There was a bakery near here that was open ‘til midnight. Martin hadn’t been in ages, but he figured dodging a supernatural attack with your ex-boss qualified as a special occasion. 

It wasn’t until nearly the end of the block that Martin realized he hadn’t let go of Jon’s hand.

And, somewhat more importantly, that Jon had not let go either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt your angsty plot for some fluffy plot. Like a palate cleanser. 
> 
> If I'm being PERFECTLY honest I really considered not posting the epilogue, stopping here, and giving the whole thing a much happier ending than originally intended. But then I remembered that the false ending is a big trope in horror. so hit that next chapter button friend-o


	10. Peter Lukas, regarding An Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha! i lulled you into a false sense of security!

A pier, in the early morning fog. The world tinted and muffled blue. Chill in the air, despite it being mid-July. It wasn’t going to rain today, the fog would clear up with the rising sun, but he could enjoy the stillness until then.

In theory, anyway.

Unfortunately, he had a meeting.

The man waiting for him on the end of the pier was unfamiliar. Young, maybe thirty or so, with a large frame and a soft jaw. Hair so light against his complexion it had to be dyed, unless he was going very prematurely white. Bright eyes that didn’t quite seem to fit his face right. 

Ah. 

“Mister Blackwood, is it?”

“I think we’re alright to stick with first names, Peter.”

“Martin, then.”

“Not for long.”

“No? I rather like it.”

“You would.” he paused, and clasped his hands behind his back for a moment before shifting his weight and shoving his hands in his pockets. Still adjusting to the new center of gravity. “But no, having two Martin Blackwoods running around is a bit… visible. Even for me.”

“Can’t you just get rid of the other one?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Oh, god, the paperwork. I’m already covering up Elias’ death, and I’m working without his influence. Thank god he hadn’t had anybody care about him in thirty years.”

Peter just barely managed to catch himself from saying  _ I did _ .

Martin smiled, just the barest upward twist to one side of his face. “That’s very sweet of you, Peter, but no. You didn’t. Elias Bouchard was useful, but was never really going to amount to anything.”

“And Martin Blackwood?”

“Surprised me.”

Peter whistled.

“But,” Martin continued, “He’s also shown me exactly what I need to see. There is a future in which I win.”

“Probably plenty where you don’t, too.”

“Oh, without a doubt.”

“You don’t sound worried.”

“If I knew for certain, I was going to win, it wouldn’t be any fun, now would it?”

Peter chuckled. “Suppose not. Shame about your Archivist though, I really thought he was rather promising.”

“Yes, so did I.” Martin sighed. “He’s been spoiled now, though. If he was just a  _ little  _ further along I could’ve kept feeding him statements, pulled him back. But alas.”

“The timing really was impeccable, wasn’t it? I’m honestly a little impressed.”

Martin glowered at the horizon, muttering something about the Distortion having it out for him. Peter followed his gaze. There was nothing out there, at least not that he could see. Not for the first time, he wondered if there actually  _ was _ something to See out there, or if the man beside him was just doing it to be dramatic.

“Leave me anything in the will?” he asked. 

Martin’s mouth twisted up again. “Everything, obviously. But I will be wanting it back.”

“Tough to explain that property transfer.”

“Want to get married?”

“I  _ meant _ because of your other Mr. Blackwood.”

“I know.” Martin frowned and gently touched his cheekbone, where there was still some bruising below the eye. “I’ll need to recover some. Find a new body, one with fewer… complications.”

“How long will that take?”

Martin shrugged. “Hard to say. But don’t worry, Peter. You’ll see me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna say, this has been my first time writing long-form fanfic, and it actually rekindled my drive to be creative and write fiction (in any form)! Thanks to everyone who doesn't listen to the show but did listen to me explain why I had to use the "major character death" tag on a fic where TECHNICALLY every main character survives to the end. Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos, it truly gave me the drive to actually finish the fic, you're all the best of the best and I'm so grateful to how kind y'all have been <33 And thanks to everyone who read! I hope I brought a little joy :)


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